Thirteen: When We Dance, Angels Will Run and Hide Their Wings

Anti-Litigation Charm: None of the characters belong to me. They belong to JK Rowling, who let my entire reason for reading the Harry Potter series bleed to death on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I'm building a better world.

Cathedrals are broken, Heaven's no longer above, and hellfire's a promise away, I'd still be saying I'm still in love

The memorial to Hermione's parents at Morden Crematorium was small and sparsely attended, according to their daughter's wishes. It irked many of the Grangers' friends and patients, but they bit back their complaints and gossip, in deference to the circumstances. The few who were invited cast covert glances at the Granger's only child, and the unusual, severe dark-haired man who accompanied her. The girl looked pale and wan, and more than once the stern figure at her side grasped her hand in comfort, and at a particularly poignant part of the service she leaned against him, to hide her tears.

It took a supreme effort to keep from crying throughout the entire ceremony, but Hermione was kind and gracious to everyone, and by the time the caskets rolled on the conveyor belt into the incinerator to be cremated, Hermione was shaking, and a little dizzy. She had accepted the sympathetic words of the mourners with quiet gratitude, and silently accepted the small box of personal effects from the funeral home director. Her parents' ashes, she was told, would be combined and shipped to her in Scotland. Hermione approved. Her parents had been inseparable in life, so would they be in death. It was a comforting thought.

Upon returning to Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey, along with Severus, forced Hermione to take a Calming Draught and a Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Later, both Healer and professor stood, looking down at the young woman who slept peacefully, as tears slid silently from her closed eyes.

"It's a terrible thing to lose one beloved parent, but both at once," Poppy said, shaking her head. Her eyes never left the sleeping girl. "My father has been gone almost fifty years, and I still miss him every day."

Severus, stooping from time to time to wipe the tears away from Hermione's face, murmured, "I do not miss my parents at all." There was a lonely bitterness in his tone. "I don't have one good memory of my father, and mother was so beaten down..." Hermione shifted in her sleep, and sighed.

"I know, boy," Poppy answered, and Severus felt her warm hand on his shoulder. "A bad parent is as useless a thing as can be found on this earth, but a good father is priceless." She gave his arm a little reassuring squeeze. "I have often thought that you might make a good father, when you grow up."

Severus snorted. "When? I hate to interrupt your moment of temporary senility, Poppy, but I am in my thirties."

Poppy smiled. "What does that have to do with it?" Severus' eyebrows shot up almost to his widow's peak in reply.

Poppy laughed silently at her colleague of many years, and she gave a little nod toward the sleeping figure in the bed. "That one is years older than you in many ways, Severus. Age has nothing to do with it. Let her teach you, and you teach her in return."

"I take back what I said about momentary senility. I think it's permanently settled in." He looked away.

Poppy merely handed him a mug of tea. "Goodnight, Severus. Get a good night's sleep." Poppy reached down and smoothed the covers of Hermione's bed. "She's going to need you tomorrow."

Severus merely nodded, and Poppy left him to his vigil at Hermione's bedside, knowing full well that when she raised the privacy wards, he would slip into the infirmary cot and take his witch into his arms. Poppy smiled. Wizards could be such children sometimes.

On the following day, Hermione and Severus made their last stop in the process of settling her parents' estate: the Grangers' wizarding solicitor, Mr. Aloysius Godfrey.

For perhaps the hundredth time, Hermione thanked the gods she'd talked her parents into instructing a wizarding lawyer instead a Muggle one. Everything was much easier to deal with, from the signing over of her parents' business to transferring money from their Muggle bank to Gringotts.

"Miss Granger, it is lovely to see you. I'm only sorry it is not in happier circumstances. A terrible accident; what a tragedy for you," Mr. Godfrey said, shaking her hand. Hermione felt an inappropriate urge to laugh out loud; she wasn't sure if it was from the events of the past two days catching up with her, or simply the fact that her parents' solicitor looked just like Severus would in forty years' time.

Tall, dark-eyed, aristocratic, Mr. Godfrey could have easily passed as Severus' uncle, or cousin. He even had the same deep, lovely voice. The two men seemed oblivious to this fact as they shook hands. Severus, having been introduced to Mr. Godfrey as Hermione's 'companion', was there to make sure the lawyer didn't try to force Hermione into relinquishing any of her rights as an adult or heir to their estate.

Finally, the obligatory small talk ended, and Mr. Godfrey set upon his course. Looking at all the legal documents from her parents' safe, including her newly updated birth certficate, he frowned, and then shrugged. "Time seems to get away from me more quickly with each passing year." He smiled at the young lady. "I was thinking you were only around sixteen or so."

Hermione smiled at the older man. "Yes, sir; time flies. I turned eighteen last month. I'm finishing at Hogwarts soon." It was a little lie, and true enough.

"Ah, yes. Have you decided on a course of study, then?"

Hermione stole a glance at Severus. "I thought I might go into the field of Healing. I seem to have an affinity for it."

"Indeed! A noble profession, Miss Granger. Especially in these trying, uncertain times." He also glanced at Severus, but seemed unable to come up with an opening gambit for the severe, sombre man with Miss Granger, so decided to press on. "The contents of your parents' wills are very simple. No surprises. Everything goes to you, of course, and the funds are in Barclays Bank, but we can arrange for their transfer as soon as..."

Severus looked on as Hermione perused each parchment carefully, before signing. He noticed that Mr. Godfrey managed to avoid speaking to Hermione with the patronising, condescending tone so prevalent in the Wizarding solicitors Severus had encountered from time to time. His own dealings with his family's lawyer over the meagre leavings of his parents had been infuriating in the extreme. Severus was pleased that Mr. Godfrey seemed to sense that, should he try to grandstand Hermione Granger in any way, she could, and would, give him a run for his money. Not that she would ever need to.

"I don't know how much you knew of your parents' portfolio, Miss Granger, but you are a very well-off young lady now. Because of the nature of your parents' deaths, their Muggle insurance policies will pay in full. Their dental surgery was extremely successful, and they invested well and wisely over the years. They also set up a trust fund for you, to be used for any field of advanced education you wish to pursue. You will have no problems making ends meet during your apprenticeship, my dear."

Smiling gently, Hermione chatted and charmed the old man until he reluctantly rose and signaled the end of the meeting, citing another client appointment. "It has been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger, and although I cannot possibly say anything to make this horrible tragedy bearable, I do wish you success in future." He turned to Severus, and shook his hand as well. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Snape." He looked at Hermione and tipped Severus a wink. "Take good care of our girl here."

Shocked into replying, Severus stuttered, "I – I will. Thank you." Together, they walked out into the London sunshine filtering through Diagon Alley, and Severus Apparated them back to Hogwarts.

"But I need to go to Gringotts and convert my pounds!" she was saying, as he whirled her away. "And there's the matter of appointing an estate agent for selling the house property, and making sure the dental practice is transferred to their partner, and - "

"And this will wait for another day, lass!" Severus turned toward her. "You're practically falling down as it is. You will return to the infirmary, and you will ask Madam Pomfrey for another Calming Draught, and another Dreamless Sleep Draught, and you will rest," he said, his voice stern. "You overtaxed yourself yesterday, and I will not entertain any argument today, Miss Granger."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but a perfectly poised eyebrow gave her pause to close it again. If the truth were known, she was shattered. Rolling her eyes, she held up her hands in mock surrender. "Yes, sir," she said, meekly, but gave him a little smile as she put hand to heart. "I promise to be a good girl."

"See that you do, Miss Granger," he said, with equally false gravitas, looking down his large nose at her, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "I have some matters of my own to attend to." He patted his coat pocket. It was the same Muggle suit he'd worn to inspect the house, and it still held her belongings in the small box hidden in the pocket. "I need to speak with the Headmaster regarding your future accommodations here at Hogwarts."

By the end of the week, Madam Pomfrey declared that Hermione was fit to leave Hogwarts' infirmary permanently, and on Friday evening, Hermione found herself being escorted by the Headmaster down to her temporary accommodations. Severus had been brewing for Madam Pomfrey all day, and they were to meet after Hermione had settled in.

"I think you will find these rooms acceptable, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore was saying, as he lowered the wards. "You will need to reassert your own wards, according to your preferences, my dear." He opened the door and led her into a large suite of rooms. She was pleased to see her belongings had already been brought from her dormitory room, and the items from her parents' home waited only to be unpacked and enlarged.

She turned to Professor Dumbledore. "It's perfect, sir. Thank you."

The headmaster bowed, and as he turned to go, he added, "Oh, and Miss Granger, I would hate for your summer here to be idle and unproductive. Professor Snape mentioned today that you've expressed an interest in becoming a Healer. I've arranged for you to spend some time during the school holiday with Madam Pomfrey, for some extra credit work toward that aim, if you are so agreeable."

For the first time since she'd received the news her parents had been killed, Hermione beamed. "That would be perfect! Please thank her for agreeing to do this for me!"

"A pleasure, Miss Granger. We'll speak over the particulars on Monday. Enjoy your weekend, and do try to rest, my dear." He gave her a friendly, rather absent-minded little wave, and was gone.

As the Headmaster left Hermione, she came to the realisation that this was the first time she'd been truly physically alone in weeks. She was always with someone: Harry and Ron, Lavender and her other roommates, Severus, classmates. In reality, Hermione had always felt set apart from others; she thought it might be why she had always been attracted to Severus. They were so alike in this respect. Hermione's days of feeling she must fill the air with chatter to prove her intelligence were behind her. Now, when she and Severus were together, they enjoyed their mutual solitude, as much as their affections. Now that she was by herself, it felt strangely liberating, yet frightening.

She had been afraid that, once alone, she would fall apart and give into her grief. She sat quietly, trying to summon the spirit of her parents, but she could not. She could only feel the hollow knowledge that they were gone. Picking up one of the photo albums Severus had stored in the little box, she enlarged it and looked through it. She'd seen this album of photos for years, sitting in her mother's front room. It had been part of the furniture. Now it was a precious heirloom. She wished she'd looked at it more often when they were alive.

The need to cry, to release the guilt and the sadness, seeped into her slowly, slyly, and she allowed herself to give in to it, and to tell them goodbye.

"I'm sorry I didn't protect you enough, but it doesn't mean I don't love you very much," she said, speaking aloud, as if they were in the same room with her. "Thank you for being such a wonderful mum and dad. Thank you for loving me. I'll miss you. I'll make you proud, I promise," she choked, and sat on her sofa, allowing the tears to slide down her face.

After a time, she felt peaceful, and a strange comfort stole into her heart. She smiled, as sweet memories played in her mind. Once she'd calmed and her tears had released more of the grief, she rose, cleaned her face and set about getting settled in. Her parents had always been pragmatic and supportive, and she was sure they would understand.

She spent the next few hours unpacking, letting the rooms get to know her, and learning them in return. She enlarged the remainder of the belongings from the house, wrinkling her nose at the faint stink of smoke they still carried. With the exception of her mother's box of books on sex, Hermione looked at each item carefully, and placed it somewhere in the room where she could see it clearly. Her mother's special books she hid away, beside the bed.

The bedroom was rather Spartan; she wondered if Severus' was the same. It struck her as funny that the two of them had been as close as any lovers, but she'd never been in the room where he slept. Thoughts of Severus Snape, lounging in bed, formed a little tight ball of heat in her abdomen, and with it came the first shade of anxiety.

In the past year, she'd read enough about psychology to know that one of the first things grief-stricken individuals feel is the need to connect with someone. Sometimes it was as simple as a hug or embrace, to dispel the feeling of being alone. Then she remembered seeing Severus the moment he'd walked into the infirmary, after Professor McGonagall had clumsily told her about her parents' deaths.

Seeing him, looking down at her, she'd been in pain, and devastated, but just as powerful was the undeniable knowledge that a heated, sudden, reluctant lust had bloomed in her loins, and by the time he had taken her in his arms to comfort her, she was wet. If they had been alone, she would have pleaded that he make love to her. It had stunned and shamed her, but she could not disavow it.

Now that she was alone, and had time to contemplate it, she admitted to herself the burning, overwhelming want for him. It made heartbeat pulse in her crotch, and although he had never so much as tried to undo one button on her blouse, she knew his answering heat was more than a match for hers. Her innocence was its own reward; she felt deep desire, without fully appreciating its enslavement. She knew, however, that Severus would know exactly what to do, and although he was more than willing to wait for her, Hermione was not sure she was equally as patient.

She had read her mother's books, she had touched herself, and she and Severus had kissed passionately. She knew the physical aspects of desire. She knew what she wanted, but she was at a loss how to ask for it. She and Severus had discussed sex, and he had been adamant: he would not initiate it, until she was ready, and her body healed of its injuries. But how would she know she was ready? How did she know she was not ready now?

Before the Department of Mysteries, she would have been nervous, but eager to give into her own passions with Severus. Now, she was afraid of her body. She was afraid of seeing his ardour shrivel and die as he looked at her.

She took a deep breath and slapped her knees as she hauled herself onto her feet. No use in sitting around wondering about it. She walked into the sitting room, where a large mirror stood in the far corner. It was a long, oval mirror, very modest, but stately, in its oak frame.

"Good evening, dearie," it croaked rustily, obviously long unused to greeting anyone. It had most likely been awhile since the mirror had serviced any of the occupied rooms.

"Good evening," Hermione replied politely. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind keeping silent for awhile. You see, I have to look at a rather bad scar, and I..."

"Say no more," the old mirror wheezed. "I completely understand, love. Just give me a call when you'd like a second opinion."

Slowly, swallowing back her unease, Hermione removed her clothes, not looking at herself. She chastised herself for her cowardice. Not looking at it won't make it go away! she told herself firmly, but the real truth was she was afraid of what he would say. Would he turn away in disgust?

Finally, wearing only her long, blue dressing gown and a pair of plain, white cotton knickers, Hermione walked back into the sitting room, and faced the mirror.

The young woman who gazed back at her looked tired. Her hair was curling and slightly frizzy in the humid air of the room; Hermione was tempted to use the Hair Smoothing Charm Severus had taught her those long months ago. She saw rather shapely legs, and firm, but not too heavy, breasts. She was a pleasing shape, and more than once her wizard had given her a silent, but appreciatively appraising look when she wore, say, his favourite shade of blue. She was trembling, and as she nervously chewed on her lower lip, she untied the belt of her robe, and slowly opened it, to see her cursed body fully for the first time.

For a moment, Hermione stood, and looked at herself, and tried very hard to be stoic about it. Dolohov had hit her right between the breasts, and the scar started there, and trailed down to her naval in a nearly perfect straight line. The top was wider, about two inches across, and it tapered down to a pencil-thin line near her pelvic bone, bisecting her belly button. The skin, stitched together by the combined spells of Severus and Madam Pomfrey, looked like fragile, striated webbing between the long "V" shaped edges of the scar.

Although it no longer hurt, it was red and angry-looking, and to Hermione, it was hideous. Quickly, she closed the gown and tied the sash tightly around her waist. At that moment, Hermione was forced to confess she was far vainer than she'd ever realised. A lone sob escaped her, and she sat down and mastered it.

In his private lab, Severus was finishing another batch of Pimple Potion, and was planning to join Hermione afterward for a light supper. He felt a twinge in his palm, and reached out to his witch. Hermione? Are you unwell? Shall I call for Madam Pomfrey?

She immediately replied, rather scratchily, I'm fine. Just tired, and a little upset. I'm looking at my scar...

Severus could sense her emotions: the shame, the worry, the fear of rejection. How many times had he looked at himself and thought the same things? I will join you shortly. He finished the solution he was preparing, and took a deep breath. Tonight, it would seem, their relationship would enter another stage.

He took the short walk from his lab to her chambers to examine his own thoughts. Severus had ever been overly sensitive about his looks, or rather, the lack of pleasing features fate had seen fit to bestow upon him.

Shortly before he began his schooling at Hogwarts, he had asked his mother if she thought he was handsome. She had looked down at her overly bright, sensitively hopeful little son, and answered truthfully. "I would have to say no, Severus. But your face has a lot of character."

He had been crushed, but he was old enough to understand that her words were not spoken in anger, or malice, as so many of his father's epithets. He knew his mother was trying, in her own way, to be kind. As he'd grown and watched arseholes like Sirius Black strut around, cruel and secure in their good looks and popularity, he came to resent the easy, unasked-for handsomeness of those like Black and James Potter.

What had come so effortlessly to these privileged few was mysteriously out of his council-house grasp, and he had deeply resented his helplessness and inability to obtain, it no matter how hard he tried. It had taken Severus years to see how others had used his insecurities and covetousness to bend him to the Slytherin dogma of pureblood supremacy.

Still hurting from Lily's outright rejection of him, and the constant feeling of being laughed at behind his back for any number of incomprehensible reasons, Severus had been ripe for the Dark Lord's brave-new-Wizarding-world rhetoric. The disenfranchised of the world have always been vulnerable to those eager to exploit them, and Severus had bought and espoused the Dark Lord's vision with the fervent conviction of a zealot, in the hopes that he'd truly found his place in the world.

Eager to prove he was just as worthy as any Slytherin, Severus had acquired a lot of polishing from the elegant Slytherins he tried to associate with. He'd tried so hard to immulate wizards like Lucius Malfoy, and even Regulus Black, Sirius' brother. Both seem to have their own effortless grace and style that Severus coveted as much as, well, Lily.

When Lily had died, Severus had stopped trying to improve his looks. He had long since cast his lot with Dumbledore, who falsely told him he would try to protect Lily, but nothing had gone his way since.

Who was there to care if his hair was washed every day, or that he took better care with his appearance, or wore anything other than his formal teaching robes? Girls hadn't exactly been falling out of bed for him when he was a student, and being only three or so years older than his oldest students when he started teaching, he certainly didn't want to invite that sort of attention. He found that thought supremely ironic, in light of recent events.

Every taunt, every malicious comment made by every student had been filed away in his heart. Hermione had been right; his skin was much thinner than hers when it came to the cruelty of others. He had never learned to take it. Perhaps his father had been right – he was too sensitive for his own good. Once Sirius had been reinstated in the Order, it had started again. It didn't matter that Sirius had been proven innocent in betraying Lily. It had made Severus hate Sirius all the more. In many ways, Sirius had still betrayed them, by seducing Lily away from him, by trying to molest their son's brightest and most important friend.

Entering Hermione's rooms gave Severus a strange feeling of déjà vu. Dumbledore had placed him in this same room the year he found out his mother had died. It was between his sixth and seventh year, and he'd gone to Albus, begging to stay here. The Headmaster, sensing the young man's fear of his abusive father, and his growing infatuation with Tom Riddle's Death Eaters, had allowed him to stay. It was the first time Dumbledore had treated him with sensitivity and concern. Severus should have known better than to take his sympathy and fatherly mien at face value.

The quarters looked the same, but with one exception: his witch lived there. He could smell her comforting scent as he arrived, and her wards allowed him to pass through effortlessly. At the entrance, an orange blob scrutinized him carefully. Upon further inspection, said blob turned out to be a large, ginger cat with the most smashed-in face Severus had ever seen. He deduced this to be the famous Crookshanks, Hermione's familiar. The two males regarded each other suspiciously, until Severus drawled, "Well, sir, am I to be welcomed into your den?"

With a swish of his large tail, Crookshanks gave Severus a rather haughty look of acceptance. Ruefully, Severus could not help but feel he'd just been critiqued and found marginally acceptable to pass muster. As he stalked toward the door to seek his entertainment elsewhere, Crookshanks turned and gave Severus what could only be called a smug look. His entire countenance seemed to mock Severus, as if he were saying, "I share Hermione's bed every night; where do you hang your trousers, wizard?"

"Jammy bastard," Severus muttered, as the feline haughtily strutted past him.

Just inside the sitting room, Severus found Hermione. She was sitting on the old leather sofa, her feet tucked underneath her, staring into the fire; it may have been June, but it was June in Scotland, and the Dungeons were always at least twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the castle.

Hermione looked up at him as he walked through the door. He was wearing one of his old white shirts reserved for more hazardous potions-making. It had several small, round burn holes in the cuffs from straying sparks; the buttons were mismatched. He wore plain black trousers and dragon-hide boots on his slender feet. Even in his less-than-auspicious clothing, he still carried the dark, intense appeal that Hermione found so desirable in him. The thought of his being desirable made her feel even more insecure.

For the longest time, they looked at one another. It was comfortable, sitting in this place, simply gazing at one another, and neither seemed in any hurry to speak. Finally, Severus took a deep breath, and placed his hand on his shirt.

"Hermione, I'm going to remove my shirt. If that makes you uncomfortable in any way, I will stop and dress again." He looked as if carved from solid rock. "Do you trust me?"

Hermione looked at him carefully. He looked stoic, but underneath, he looked almost frightened. "Of course I trust you, Severus." She rose from the sofa and faced him. "I know you wouldn't do anything I wasn't ready to – to do."

He nodded. "Just so." He looked down, as if gathering his courage, then pulled his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. Gazing down at the floor, his long, elegant fingers pushed the buttons through the holes purposefully, almost modestly, as if undressing for a Healer, instead of a lover. From time to time, he glanced up at her, and his face flushed slightly beneath her concentrated scrutiny.

When he had finished unbuttoning the garment, Severus repeated the movement with the cuff buttons. By now, Hermione could see the pale line of skin peeking from between the edges of his shirt. He swallowed, and she could see his Adam's apple bobbing. It was obviously difficult for him to reveal himself to her, and the act was made all the more prized for it.

Hermione whispered, "Are you sure you wish to do this? I don't want make you uncomfortable, Severus."

His eyes shot up to hers, and for a moment he looked suspicious, as if he thought she was mocking him. Looking into her soft, tawny eyes, he realised she was concerned for him as always, and his discomfort dissipated somewhat.

Taking a deep breath, Severus removed his shirt, and laid it on the arm of the sofa, his eyes downcast. Like a model, he held out his arms from his sides, and slowly turned, to reveal that, like her, he too had scars.

He heard her gasp as he turned around, and he grimaced. His back was a mass of white, criss-crossed marks. He hesitated, and closed his eyes, offering his back to her like a sacrament, as if she had the ability to heal him, to make his pale skin flawless again.

A soft hand tentatively touched his bare back, and he shivered, looking straight ahead. His heartbeat sped up almost immediately.

Hermione felt tears prick her eyes at his hideously ruined back. What torture this man had endured! She knew these marks had been made on the first night he'd returned to Voldemort's side last year. Severus had told her how Albus had made him wait several days after the initial summoning, before he presented himself to the Dark Lord. During that entire time, his Dark Mark had burned and throbbed until he had cried from the constant pain. There he'd been, the puppet between these two powerful wizards, each using him to play their terrible power games of one-upmanship.

Finally, when Severus had bowed before the Dark Lord that first time, Voldemort had been pitiless, and at his most savage, using Severus as an example to the others of the consequences of keeping the Dark Lord waiting. Voldemort had used an enchanted whip to scourge Severus; it forced the victim to relive the pain of the initial beating over and over, and left permanent scars that could never be magically eradicated.

After the Dark Lord grew bored of this sport, Severus had been given over to the other Death Eaters, who raped and Cruciated him repeatedly. He was then dumped unceremoniously back at Hogwarts, a gruesome message for Dumbledore, to remind him how the Dark Lord rewarded defiance.

Severus had been unconscious for almost a week, and the lacerations made by the enchanted whip were bone deep, and ached for months. Some of the worst still ached, in spite of Madam Pomfrey's most powerful Healing Charms and his own formidable Potions work.

Looking at Severus' scarred body, Hermione found herself hating Albus Dumbledore almost as much as the Dark Lord. He was supposed to be one of the good guys, but he'd made those marks just as surely as Voldemort's enchanted whip, with his ideas of subterfuge and power struggle. Hermione hated that her wizard was the hapless plaything between Voldemort and a man who was supposed to be Severus' friend. Severus had taken the beating and the abuse stoically; only Poppy heard his pitiful, wretched cries of suffering and humiliation during his almost month-long recovery. He thought he had deserved it, after all he'd done.

When Hermione's hand reached out of its own accord and she gently touched Severus' back, she felt him shiver, and before she could stop herself, she slid her arms around his waist, and laid her head against his disfigured back.

"If I could take these to myself, I would, if it would take them away from you," she said, in a still, small voice.

Severus heart began to thump in his chest, and he felt a wave of gratitude threaten to overwhelm him completely. Hermione pressed her body against his back, and placed the flat of her palms against his abdomen, and Severus felt the soft touch her lips against his back. A soft, almost boyish sigh escaped his lips, as he felt her warm mouth move over his back, kissing each mark, and each kiss felt like a blessing.

"Hermione," he whispered, closing his eyes to this tender veneration of his body. He was almost panting, and his nipples grew hard, along with his cock. "Merlin's sweet sake, girl!" he moaned, knowing he should ask her to stop, but all he succeeded in doing was lacing her fingers with his, to move her hands over his chest, up, always up, because if he lowered her arms, he would not stop until he'd enclosed her hands around his raging erection.

Her mouth moved over his cool back, over ridges of scars that were twisted and ropy, where lash layered over lash. Some were raised, like twine running under the skin; others were silvery threads stitched in and out of his flesh. Hermione kissed them all, as Severus shook and panted and pressed against her soft hands.

"Severus," she said, her voice husky. "I need you to..." She leaned against his back, feeling the power underneath the pain; the sinewy muscles of the hard planes of his body. He was not a large man, but years of striding the length and breadth of the castle had given his body stamina and physical power, and his muscles were firm. His body felt like silk layered over stone.

His head fell back, and his dark hair, oily from hours spent over steaming cauldrons, fell over his shoulders, tickling Hermione's forehead. He whispered, "Tell me. Tell me what you need, and I will give it..." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each finger.

Then he did something that made Hermione moan with longing. He gently took the tip of each finger into his mouth, and suckled them in turn. He smiled as he heard her ragged breathing grow rapid, until it matched his gasping, trembling breaths.

"Tell me. Please," he begged, his lovely, silken whisper made more beautiful by the needful desperation, the desire that raged through him, and gave his voice a slightly ragged edge. His long fingers threaded through hers again, and held her close, knowing he would do whatever she asked. If she wanted to crawl inside his skin, he would open himself up and sew her within, to keep her safe.

To his profound disappointment, she pulled away from him, holding onto his hand, so that he was forced to turn around and face her. She looked at his lean torso, as battered and striped as his back, and, looking up at him with absolute trust and love, wrapped her arms around him.

For a moment more, she pressed her face against his chest, and gently kissed his pale skin with lips that felt soft and torturous. "Hermione, please," he all but whimpered. "I am, after all, mere flesh and blood." Her brand of torment was more cruelly perverse than that of Bellatrix Lestrange. Merlin, why was he thinking that now, of all things?

She looked up at him and stepped back. With trembling hands, she untied the belt of her long dressing gown, and gathering her courage, looked up into his midnight eyes. They were so dark, so intense, they scorched her, and she returned his hungry look. There was a difference, though, and Severus understood it, whereas Hermione did not. He knew what he wanted; Hermione only knew that she wanted.

"I want you to look at me. I want you to be honest. I want to know that you still desire me like this. Can you look at this every day and still want me?"

Incredulous, Severus held open his arms. In his most beguiling tone, he said, "Do you want me, Hermione? Do you desire me?"

"Of course I do! Why do you think I – "

He caught the sides of the robe just as she tried to slip it from her shoulders. "Then why do you ask me the same question? You don't have to do this," he whispered. "You are beautiful to me." He shook his head and looked down at her lovely face. He tilted his head, and cupped her face with his hands. "How could I look at you and see anything but beauty?" He looked down at his own chest; the slashes, the welts, the marks of disfigurement he'd worn since the day he took his Dark Mark.

She had barely glanced at his Dark Mark; he had already shown it to her, of course, on the night they often referred to as 'Their Long Talk', in which Severus poured out his story to her, and made her his. He raised his arm again. "How can you be anything but beautiful to me, Hermione?"

She grimaced. "You haven't really seen it yet. The scar is – "

"- Is proof of love, witch. You loved me enough to stand between me and what could have been the Killing Curse." He swiftly pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, feverishly, plunging into her mouth with hungry, sucking lips that teased her mouth open to him. He rolled his head sensuously until his was slanted against hers, his tongue beckoning her to taste him, to fill his mouth with her own.

As her tongue slid into his mouth, he moaned deliriously, and grasped the back of her head to pull her closer. His kiss changed, grew slow and sure, and with each suckling bite of his lips and his teeth, Hermione felt her body grow hotter, wetter, until she was pressed against him, her arms around his waist possessively. He sucked her tongue into his mouth almost painfully, and they pressed against each other until they were both panting, both moaning with each breath.

He pulled away from her, sucking her bottom lip. Hermione clung to him, eyes closed, mouth opened, gasping, waiting. He rewarded her with another yearning, deep kiss. As their lips parted, he whispered, "All I see is the woman I love, inviting me to look at her, to admire her." His voice almost sang with its prism of colour and timbre. "To worship her."

She felt the heat of his gaze, and, lulled by his seductive, velvet voice, she swayed against him. "I just didn't want to..." She shook her head, desire blossoming within her, making her feel reckless and nervous at the same time. "I want... I want..." Frustrated, she opened her mind to him, and he Legilimized into her mind with gentle, measured steps, until he found what he sought. He nodded, as he recognised what she could not articulate.

Severus took her hand, and led her to the mirror in the corner. Together, they faced the mirror, and Severus moved to stand behind her, his arms loosely draped around her waist. They gazed at each other's reflection, and Hermione leaned back against him, her breathing slow and languid. He placed a kiss against the side of her neck with lips that felt like warm silk against her skin. With something like mischief in his fathomless eyes, he whispered, "Teresdec Orocuros."

Hermione laughed as her hair began to slide and smooth and curl at once. It curled at the end in long, sleek ribbons which wrapped around themselves. Two curls slid around Severus' wrist, and one cheekily snaked over his arm and licked at his back. The spell turned her hair into long, shining, twirling tendrils, ropes to ensnare his heart.

"Do you see?" she whispered, leaning back against him. "Even my hair is in love with you. It wants to be as close to you as I do."

Turning his head, he whispered in her ear, "It does, does it? Shall I tell you what you want, lass?" She nodded, caught in the web of his enchanting, seductive voice, the softest hint of Northern inflection.

He stood behind her, close enough that she felt the heat from his body, just shy of pressing hard against her. She could hear his breathing.

"You want to know that what we shared before Black tried to molest you is real, that sex is not forced by anger or alcohol. You want to be cherished, and touched with love and tenderness. All those nights we held each other and spoke of becoming lovers – you want what I want, my lovely girl. You want to know that you control every moment, every aspect of our physical joining, and that your 'no' is my 'no'."

He spoke to her in an almost matter-of-fact tone, as if speaking to himself, and as he spoke, she could see his face relax, and his eyelids slowly closed. His eyelashes were like long, inky brushstrokes against his pale skin, and in his mind and his voice, she saw and heard only concern and care.

"Hermione, I have told you countless times, I will not take this any further until you are ready. I will not force you to share my bed." He lowered his mouth to her shoulder, and his raven's-wing hair tickled her skin as he touched his lips to her sensitive flesh.

His voice feather-light and sweetly erotic, he whispered, "Oh, make no mistake, witch, I desire you. Merlin, I desire you. More than I've ever wanted another woman." He smiled, as if at a pleasant memory. "More than I wanted my Hogwarts letter; more than my first wand, more than my first set of dress robes." He took a deep breath, considered the words he wanted to say, and found he could speak them in truth. "More than Lily."

"More than Lily?" Even as the question left her lips, Hermione wanted to bite of her own tongue. Why on earth did she have to question him?

He nodded to her reflection. With a voice soft with understanding, he said, "I wanted Lily, because she was the only girl who treated me as if I was like everyone else. But I love you, because you treat me as if I'm different from any wizard you've ever known."

"You are precious to me," she said, leaning back against his chest, reveling in his warmth. Haltingly, she continued, "I do think about what happened with... with Sirius, and I don't believe that sex and intimacy can be equated to that." She took a deep breath. In for a sickle...

She looked into his obsidian eyes, and trembling with want, she whispered, "I want you to show me the difference." She saw his expression shift, and he slowly licked his lips. She swallowed. "Tonight."

Title and opening words are from Sting's "When We Dance".

Hair spell "Teresdec Orocuros is from the Latin teres decoro curo, straighten, beautify, manage

This spell is dedicated to Sempraseverus, whose beautiful drawings of Hermione's hair are so wonderful. She once told me Hermione hair winds itself around Severus because it is as in love with Severus as she is.