Chapter 13

Transcendent Quality of Remembrance

Chapter 13

Although he may not be the man some

Girls think of as handsome

To my heart he carries the key

Someone to Watch Over Me

7 July, 1998

Hermione awoke to an empty room, the single strand of long black hair on the empty pillow beside her testament to her missing lover.  Her rumbly tummy informed her that it was breakfast time, but she felt far too good to want to hurry.  Last night had been, if possible, even better than his peremptory actions in their afternoon rendezvous—which had been even more exciting than the night before that.  She smiled and threw the sheet off, stretching luxuriously.  Her naked body felt different than it had done before, full and ripe and plundered

Rising, she gathered her bathroom things and went to the communal bath for a quick morning shower.  Had it been only a few days before that she had stood beneath this stream of water feeling ashamed for her dreams about and desire for Severus?  Her dreams had been disturbing because of the emotions they evoked, but mostly she had been bothered because it felt so furtive—because she had thought he was indifferent to her.  But now—oh, now it was mutual.  He took her greedily—consumed her like a starving man with bread—and though he spoke little, she could feel the thrum of emotion behind his actions

She sagged against the wall, her eyes closing, an unuttered gasp on her lips.  The cool of the tile contrasted with the heat of the water streaming down her skin, and she pressed against it, visions of their lovemaking filling her mind.  He seemed like a man possessed, and though he did not say it, she knew he was possessed of her, just as she was possessed of him.  Realising it made her feel overwhelmed—quite literally weak in the knees

And wantonly aroused, all over again.

She ran palms over her breasts, tender from unaccustomed attention.  He seemed quite fond of her breasts, his hands encompassing, gently squeezing their fullness, whilst his lips frequently sought her nipples.  He drove her wild with desire when he held her down and toyed with her breasts, neglecting her ever more wet quim—but truly, he never neglected it for long, did he?  She slid fingers between her legs, remembering the length and breadth of him as he filled her, shoulders bunching and striving above her.

The water had run cold when she shuddered from her efforts, and she towelled herself briskly to dispel the chill.  Staring at her reflection, she plaited her hair and cleaned her teeth, her mind still full to bursting of her Dark, delicious husband.  Perhaps she could find some pretence for luring him upstairs again after breakfast.  After all, he had yet to permit her to give his body the thorough examination—visual, manual, and oral—that it deserved.  Smirking at herself in the mirror, she turned to go to breakfast.

As if to pop her bubble of newlywed glee, a voice in her mind spoke, stopping her in her tracks.

And when are you going to tell him you're leaving for America next month?

Hermione felt a sudden, sick twinge of distress.  Why would he care if she left the country?  It wasn't as if she were an important part of his life, she reasoned, but in the next breath she knew she couldn't continue to tell herself he wasn't interested in her personally.  He had demonstrated his personal interest forcefully and thoroughly more than once in the past seventy-two hours

'It's just the sex,' she informed the door, her fingers upon the handle.  'It's … something to do while we're cooped up here.'

She pulled the door open and stepped onto the stairway landing.

You have to tell him.

'I'll do it,' she muttered through clenched teeth, 'when I'm bloody well ready.'

And pushing the uncomfortable thought from her mind, she went downstairs.

Severus sat quietly over his coffee, an apothecary's catalogue open in one hand to protect him from table chatter, but his mind was not on the printed word.  He was suffused with an almost buoyant feeling of good spirits, and the phenomenon was unusual enough to be unsettling.  This business of having an eager woman in his bed was at once exhausting—she was twenty years younger, for Merlin's sake—and exhilarating.  He would fall away from her in a sweaty heap, thinking he would never be able to move again, and within an indecently short period of time she would have convinced him otherwise.  Even now, his cock twitched approvingly in his trousers at this line of thought, and he was dismayed.  He was far too old for such ridiculous reactions, regardless of the … provocation.

And she was provocative.  There lived in his swotty bride a wantonly sensual woman who required all his attention.  It was her good fortune that he had the leisure now to see to her—if it were term time, it would be another story entirely.  When school began again in September, she would have to make do with what time he could spare for her … only every morning, lunch break, and under the cover of darkness in his—their—bedroom at Hogwarts.

He was happily absorbed with these thoughts when the bride in question slipped into the chair at his side, the scent of her shampoo filling his nostrils and triggering a dangerous desire to take her on the tabletop amidst the toast and teacups

'Good morning,' she murmured, darting a teasing glance at him from the corner of her eyes.

'Slugabed,' he replied quietly, enjoying the soft gurgle of laughter with which she greeted this sally.

All around them, Weasleys squabbled good-naturedly over the last bacon butty, the young witches of the Order chatted amongst themselves about plans for a London party before someone or other's wedding, and yet Severus felt as if he and Hermione were in their own private space.  Her frequent glances, the occasional touch of her foot to his ankle beneath the table, and her lack of participation with her classmates convinced him that she experienced their isolation from the others as well.

He felt a deep, solid satisfaction that was unfamiliar but welcome.  It was as if the things they had said in the cottage on their wedding weekend were—but no, he wouldn't go there.  It was dangerously close to sentimentality, and he eschewed such mawkishness.  It was for the feeble.

Arthur, who sat to Severus' left at the head of the table, leant towards him a bit and spoke in an undertone.

'We had Albus's Patronus this morning just after dawn,' he said.  'We're to double up on patrols of the perimeter and be on the lookout for suspicious activity.'

Severus frowned, his disciplined mind immediately shifting into business mode.  'What has he heard?'

Tonks, who sat directly across from Severus, on Arthur's left, injected herself into the conversation.  'As usual, he gave us no specifics, but I think it's because he doesn't know anything definite—just rumours.'

Severus drained his coffee cup and stood.  'I'll take the first watch.'

Potter turned from Ronald's boasting story of the previous day's sport, his green eyes riveted on Severus' face.  'What's up?' he asked.

Severus behaved as if he hadn't heard, knowing Arthur would answer the boy's questions.  Hermione followed him into the sitting room.

'Do you have to go?' she asked.

He looked down into her upturned face, momentarily distracted from his purpose by the wave of fierce protectiveness that rose in him.

'I think you know I do,' he answered rather more patiently than was his wont.

'I was hoping …'  She let the words trail off, but he was beginning to know her well.  He knew very well what she had been hoping.

'Later, perhaps,' he murmured in a tone reserved only for her.

'I could come with you.'  She touched his hand but withdrew quickly when Bill Weasley came into the room.

'Not this time,' he told her, and at her crestfallen face, he added, 'I'm afraid you would be too pleasant a distraction.'

She flushed prettily, and he went out into the morning sunshine, berating himself for his newly developed weakness for soft brown eyes.

He stalked the perimeter with heightened senses, his eyes sweeping in all directions.  The preternatural sense of self-preservation that had brought him through innumerable encounters with the Dark Lord and his minions was in overdrive, pushing him to reverse directions and retrace his steps again.  What was the headmaster concerned about?  Why did he find it necessary, even after the end of their bloody war, to play his cards so close?  Did the old man trust no one?

When Severus was certain there were no Dark surprises lurking within their protected area, he found a favourite resting place and sat upon a likely rock, finally allowing his mind to go where it wanted to be.  Hermione had been flirtatious with him over the teacups this morning—had even indicated that she wanted to take him back to bed—and not many men would have walked away from such an invitation as that.  But duty was ingrained in him, like honour and discipline, and he was thankful that he possessed enough presence of mind not to make a fool of himself over a woman—no, wife.

He'd seen men fall into that trap and sneeringly scorned them for it.  But he hadn't known—had been unable to imagine—the temptation posed by a woman available not only physically, but emotionally, as well.

He'd never seen it coming.

10 January, 1998

They sat together before the fire in their dressing gowns with glasses of champagne in their hands.  Hermione feasted greedily on fairy cakes, and Severus revisited the roast chicken, potatoes, and sprouts.  But he didn't really taste the food, though his body registered it as nourishment.  He was far too aware of her to be bothered by what he put in his mouth.

She was incandescent, a young woman in a fuzzy pink dressing gown, her hair a messy tangle of curls, rose-strewn wedding wreathe, and rapidly unwinding plaits.  Her eyes sparkled, there was a dab of pink icing at the corner of her mouth, begging for his attention, and his love bite was beginning to darken at the base of her throat.

'Is this how you imagined it?' she asked softly.

He struggled to orient himself again in time and space, releasing the fantasy of his own personal bed bunny for the reality of his student-wife.

'How I imagined what?' he inquired carefully

Her lips quirked into a half-smile, and he fought the urge to lunge for her and lick the smear of fairy cake icing from her mouth.

'Your wedding night,' she explained with exaggerated patience.  'Why do I have the feeling you aren't truly listening to me?'

Severus averted his eyes, his mind spinning with her ludicrous query.  On any other day, he would scorn the question, shame her for asking it, but this was no ordinary day.  For the space of these few hours, he had a perfect situation: a woman to whom he could say what he liked, whom he could carnally enjoy as many times as she would permit, who would have no memory of their time together after she slept.  In other circumstances, he would never waste a thought on whether he ought to reply—but this night was nothing short of extraordinary, and his impulse was to indulge her—and himself.

'I can't answer that,' he replied truthfully.  'I've never considered it.'

'Never?' she prodded playfully.  'Not even when you were a boy?  Or when you had a girlfriend at school?'

He felt a flare of irritation, and a sharp retort rose to his tongue, but one glance at her face told him she was not taking the mickey.

'Hermione, how many boyfriends have you had at school?' he asked in his mildest tone

She had the grace to flush a bit.  'Hardly any at all,' she admitted.  'I had Viktor Krum pay attention to me during the year of the Tri-Wizard tournament.  And I had thought Ron and I might … but Luna is much better with him than I'd have ever been.'  She met his eye.  'Why do you ask?'

He held her gaze for a moment.  'Because I had no girlfriends at school.'

Hermione nodded, sitting forward and turning slightly to face him.  'Were you a prefect too?  With that and homework, there's hardly time for a relationship when you're at school!'

She looked quite earnest, as if she had striven to convince herself that what she said was true.  But he had never known a girl her age who did not long for a love interest in her life, and he didn't believe her.

Speaking gravely, he said, 'No, I was not a prefect.  I was in Slytherin House, and there was no such thing as a half-blood prefect there.  I was not … popular.'

Hermione snorted in obvious disgust.  'Popularity is overrated.  I've never been popular and wouldn't care to be.'

Now, that statement held a ring of veracity.  She undoubtedly meant it.

He leant forward and picked up the wine bottle, tilting it towards her interrogatively.  When she nodded, he topped up her glass and refilled his own.

'In Slytherin, blood status was paramount, closely followed by wealth.  I was therefore … supremely ineligible.'

Hermione sipped champagne and tilted her head to one side.  'Well, no offense to your House, Severus, but I can't say I'm surprised to hear they have such ridiculous standards.  So, why didn't you find some nice Gryffindor girl to go out with?'

Her eyes twinkled with mischief— with flirtation, by Merlin—and there was no trace of guile.  She didn't realise—couldn't know—how outrageous her words were.  Even so, it was time to close down this line of discussion.

'I was under the impression you are a nice Gryffindor girl.'

She giggled, clearly delighted with his response, and he marvelled inwardly at how easily she was pleased.  It took very little effort on his part to engage her—she met him more than halfway—and it inflamed him in a way he could not stop to analyse.  The urgency to have her again, to have her in his arms, skin to skin, precipitated him to close the space between them, wine glasses sent peremptorily to a side table as he swooped.

'You may be a nice girl,' he told her, his breath fanning her cheek, 'but you have a dirty face.'

His lips closed hungrily over the smudge of pink icing at the corner of her mouth.  He thrilled to the way her eyes closed in anticipation, even as her lips parted, inviting him to share the taste of sweetness with her.  And oh, the nectar of her warm mouth was sweeter by far than the sugary icing, the fragrance of her skin intoxicating, the whimper of her pleasure the headiest elixir of all.  At a touch, she yielded utterly, her dressing gown falling open to facilitate their mutual, driving urge to forge again into one being.

So despite his earlier contempt for couch gropers, Severus found himself making love to his wife on the sofa before the fire.  The soft pink of her dressing gown cradled her torso from the rougher weave of the upholstery, and the silky wings of his dressing gown covered their nakedness, as they fell into the glorious give and take, the gasps and sighs, of union as elemental as fire and as old as time.

When he opened his eyes, she sat on the stool before the hearth, patiently bringing order to her impossibly muddled mane, her dressing gown wrapped loosely about her.  Her fingers, digits he had seen countless times, handling potions ingredients, chopping fluxweed with a silver knife, grasping a crystal stirring rod, now appeared inestimably delicate as they threaded through tresses transformed by firelight.  The nondescript, mousy brown colour morphed under the influence of the tawny flames to innumerable gradations of colour: strands the pale gilt of champagne, the golden of honey, the glint of coppery ginger, darkening to the carmine of Spanish Sangria wine, overlain by the earthy tone of raw brown sugar, with low lights of spicy cinnamon.  Ought he to move forward, displace her from the stool and seat her between his knees upon the rug, taking over the painstaking task of restoring some neatness to her divinely unmanageable tresses?  Would that service be required before he could induce her to lie with him again, even though his attentions would muss those curls once more into a state of glorious disorder?

He lay prone upon the sofa, one cheek pressed to the hideous yellow fabric, his vision slightly obscured by stringy hair hanging over his face.  He hastily straightened to a seated position, trying not to imagine what an unappetising sight he might have been, sprawling nakedly unconscious after ravishing the girl.  His only consolation, as he knotted his dressing gown about his waist, was that his skinny arse, rather than his shrivelled todger, had been on display.

Hermione, however, seemed unaware of him and his state of wakefulness.  Whatever her thoughts were, they occupied her utterly; she gave no indication that she knew he was moving about behind her.  She stared into the fire, her fingertips working snarls from her hair.  Would he help her?  For in truth, was he not searching for any excuse to be next to her, his hands, however innocently, upon his bride?

Then one extremely distressing thought derailed these plans, and it was enough of a deal-breaker to force him to speak, shattering the silence.

'Have you slept?' he inquired neutrally, desperately wishing he were, if not clean, at least tidy and armoured in his teaching robes, steeled against the accusing eyes of his amnesiac wife.

Rather than answering, she came to him in a flurry of flying dressing gown and bouncing breasts and sat on his knee.  He relaxed into the sofa cushions, his arms holding her too tightly against him, and the face she pressed against his neck was damp with tears.

'I h-haven't slept,' she admitted, her voice small, rough—broken.  'I d-don't ever want to sleep again, Severus.  How can you even ask?'

He felt frozen, his heart seized in his chest, his breath stopped, blood coagulating to a frozen river in his veins.  How was he to answer her?  What comfort could he offer, what solution could he provide, to dismantle this choice she had desired, and he had delivered?  A burning, like the memory of righteous rage, touched his consciousness, but the soft, clinging weight of her in his arms precluded that sort of reaction before it could properly form.  He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of his woman, feeling her body pressed to his, his wits reeling with the memories of her luscious mouth, her welcoming arms, the perfect heat of her quim—the stunning fact of her unconditional acceptance of Severus Snape

What rose in him instead of anger was desperation.

She cried in his arms, the warmth of her tears scorching his skin like undiluted Hydra venom, and self-reproach roiled through him with the force of a thousand steam engines.  Why?  Why should he not give in to her entreaties and share his memories of their time with her in the headmaster's Pensieve?  Why should he not permit her to record every thought, every action, every memory in writing, that she might read it afterwards and know what they had been to one another?  Why should he not return to Hogwarts with the wife he'd never permitted himself to dream of having?

He stroked her hair, he kissed the salty tears from her face, he wiped her up with a hastily Summoned tea towel, all the while gently rocking her, soothing her.  She was his responsibility now, this eighteen-year-old witch, his student, the brightest and cleverest of her age, his wife.  He had a role to play in her life, one every proper man accepted and embodied from his wedding day forward.  Not the loving of her—love was for the weak, the feckless, and the fools.  No, it was much more than mere love.  He was to empower her, shelter her, protect her, from dangers both without and within.  She was a woman—a powerful witch, to be sure, but burdened with the weakness fundamental to her sex—inclined to be excessively influenced by emotion, particularly in regards to her family and friends, and as her husband, he had just become her primary family member.

It was clear, really.  A simple matter of honour, that affliction he had endured from childhood.  She had not married him because she had chosen him; any commonly held interests or beliefs, any animal attraction, any powerful sexual chemistry between them, was immaterial.  She had married him to prevent the Ministry from forcing her out of Hogwarts, and in so doing she had expressed one wish: that she might not remember the sexual act of consummation by which they sealed their union.  She feared it would make things unbearably awkward between them

She had asked only one thing of him.  He had offered a solution.  She had accepted the out.  Therefore, he was bound to honour that decision, not to enable this flight of fancy, brought on by the temporary pleasures of a sexual encounter.

She took the tea towel from him and ruthlessly scrubbed her face, then lifted her chin, drilling him with determined brown eyes.

'There's no antidote?  No spell that might restore my memory after I’ve slept?'

He longed to pull her against him again, but he had to respect this reckless show of courage against the pain of a breaking heart.

He averted his gaze, unable to trust himself to speak the necessary words, and shook his head in the negative

He could feel her bristling, and he braced himself for an angry outburst, but whatever she felt, it was not directed at him.  She spoke again.

'In the literature, are there … any known instances of a degradation effect of the potion … over time?'

His reaction was swift and unguarded—but it didn't matter, did it?  She wouldn't remember his failure to shutter his expression.

His lip lifted in a scornful sneer, he said, 'There are old witches' tales about this, as about all such potions and spells.  But being unverifiable, they have no bearing in the real world, I assure you.'

Her eyes closed for a moment, her lashes dark against her cheek.  'Then I shan't sleep,' she said simply, her eyes opening again, pinning him in place as neatly as an Incarcerous Spell.  'I'll stay awake as long as I possibly can.  I know you travel with a potion kit—I'll need all of your Pepper-Up.'

Students had been misusing Pepper-Up as a stimulant for decades, but Severus had never suspected Granger of being one of them.  He opened his mouth to argue, but she had risen and was walking up the steps to the loft, no doubt with her sights set on his travel case.  It wasn't a horrible idea—he had no desire to end this dream-like encounter, either.  So instead of arguing, he rose and followed her up the stairs.

'You can safely ingest no more than two doses in a twenty-four hour period,' he informed her back.  'Therefore, the third dose will be mine.'

She whirled around, grasping his dressing gown in her fists.  'You'll stay awake with me?' she asked breathlessly.

He did not answer her, other than to take advantage of her place on the next stair step, which made her nearly his height.  He buried both hands in her god-awful, glorious hair and kissed her fiercely.

7 July, 1998

An annoying, if technically well-done, trill of whistling brought Severus back to the present, and it was immediately followed by a smiling Bill Weasley, his hands stuffed unceremoniously into the pockets of his jeans.

'Consider yourself relieved, Severus!' he said, and before Severus could recoil, the younger wizard had grasped his upper arm and exerted the power to pull him up. Severus was left with no choice but to return the grasp on Weasley's upper arm and rise to his feet.

'Is it already noon?' Severus inquired, surprised that time had passed so quickly.

'Just past one, mate!' Bill replied. 'I think there's a lunch plate for you in the larder, but the wives have gone up for an afternoon rest.'

'Hermione?' Severus blurted stupidly, his mind having difficulty including her in any category that could be labelled 'wives'.

Bill gave him a meaningful grin. 'Fleur needs the rest now, with the baby and all. But Hermione didn't seem too tired to me.'

Severus did not wait to find out if this bit of impertinence would be capped by a know-what-I-mean wink. He turned from Weasley's knowing grin and hurried back towards the house.

Someone to Watch Over Me by Sheena Easton is available on You Tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9p9Aav1KeI