Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 33

Chapter 33:

They almost didn't make it into bed.

The civilised meal and conversation were finished, the rules of respectful courtship had been properly observed, and the lustful invitation had been extended – and then it seemed that she either drew him into an impassioned kiss, or he kissed her, or both. Emily scarcely noticed the transition from the supper table to his bedroom; one moment they were standing up and clinging to each other, and the next he had unceremoniously scooped her up without ever ending that kiss and brought her to bed, and then they were lying down and wrapped around each other and that kiss was still going on with every bit of intensity either of them had. Nothing had changed since the first night she met him – when he touched her, her stomach still quivered and her knees again turned to jelly, the lust igniting as elementally as a burning match dropped in gasoline.

In another second, he had her camisole blouse open and half off, baring her shoulder and most of a breast, then she had his waistcoat and shirt unbuttoned and was pushing them off his shoulders, her lips buried in his neck, his back tensing hungrily under her hands. Same Tesla-coil sense of electric wanting in him, same sense of craving her like water, and she was again in one of the least prohibitive moods she had ever felt – and this time he had very cleverly worn something with a sensible number of buttons, so she could get him properly undressed. But he recoiled slightly as his clothes began to come off, his eyes going to the inside of his left forearm. He then made an offhanded backwards gesture – "Nox" – and silently spoke a word, and all the lamps went out, plunging his apartments into total darkness.

With the light went all inhibitions. It took perhaps another few seconds for them to hurriedly divest each other of any (superfluous, irritating) clothing – there came the sound of one of his cufflinks rolling to ping off a piece of furniture, but neither of them ever noticed. Then he was lowering her to the mattress or she was pulling him down to cover her, or both. His skin felt as hot as a low-grade fever and faintly slick with sweat, and she could feel his breath coming in shallow gasps as he devoured her neck, every touch leaving heat and shivering pleasure etched on her skin.

The suspense was now unbearable, her nails were curling against his shoulders and her heart hammering painfully as he stretched his full lithe weight over her. His skin still smelled deliciously like wood resin and smoke, but as he finally held her, naked and frantic, in the darkness and in his own bed, the scent of his lust was an enticing haze of male desire. Her hand traced the curve of his thigh, then gently closed around another handsome erection, provoking a delicious shiver and groan from him. Then she was moving to fit herself as closely around him as she could, urging him on, doing everything she could to let him know that she wanted this, wanted him, this instant, now – nowpleasenow –

He needed no more encouragement than that. In another second he had either forced himself inside her, or she recklessly pulled him into position, or both. Again it seemed he took her with the primacy of an alpha male covering his mate, slipping into that deep, welcoming inner warmth so snugly and naturally, as though instinctively remembering exactly what he had done the first time to leave her clutching at his back and yowling at a callbox wall. She couldn't have been more glad of his body pressing her into the mattress, because otherwise she thought she might have vibrated right up to sprawl on the ceiling.

For some immeasurable amount of time she could only strain helplessly up to him, lips crushed to his, her skin awash in heat, every muscle lost in an agony of clutching him closer. Again, there was no attempt at establishing any kind of rhythm, no sense of performing for the pleasure of a demanding master, just a woman's most elemental reaction to the man she urgently desires, and who she knows wants her just as desperately. After what seemed like no time at all she felt borne up into that moment of suspense just as orgasm becomes inevitable, and then felt herself seizing on him, melting against the confines of bone and musculature. The climax went through her like some inverse Cruciatus Curse, unbearable obliterating pleasure instead of pain, her head thumping against the pillow, her face frozen in ecstatic profile in the crook of his arm.

He gasped triumphantly when he felt her start to come, his dark head sinking onto her shoulder. With his lover's ecstatic cries in his ears, whatever control he had left seemed to shatter completely. Nearly a year's smouldering discontent had gone by since he had last made love to her, and he was in a form that night to make her sorry she'd ever left, striving toward something indescribably luscious and long withheld – yes love please darling harder yes – and then his breath tore and caught in his throat as the orgasm racked through him, heat draining from his body into hers.

They clutched each other for a long, long time afterward, naked and entwined, and it was, again, absolutely glorious.

She couldn't have imagined anything sweeter than that moment – her impossible adversary lying in her arms, and loving it, shivering like a raw nerve of bliss. He was so spent and affected that he was literally shaking; she gathered him into a tight embrace, comforting him after this titanic wave of unaccustomed pleasure crashed over his unsuspecting nerves. His dark head lay heavily on her shoulder, his cheek tenderly pressed to hers – and she remembered that he had been trembling like this just after the first time they had ever made love, as well.

Yes, everything, and nothing, had changed since that first night. Now he held her for a long time afterward, lying over and inside her as if soaking in her limp satisfaction, with that lover's embrace that is unbreakable from outside, but still manages to be gentle to the one it enfolds. Now she not only felt completely content to stay in his arms, but held him just as ardently. Tonight, after the first rush of mutual lust had been satisfied, she felt no panic, no sick feeling of worry as to how he would react once the Glamour came off, because tonight there had been no Glamour. It was her real face across the supper table and on his pillow that night, point-eared, wide-pupilled, arch-browed, fine-boned – now sheened with exertion – and from his response, that didn't seem to bother him one bit. Far from it – as he lay in her arms, he caressed her face as though describing the most beautiful thing in this world, or any other.

And tonight, just before he made love to her, she had silently whispered not one word, but three, into his neck.

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That delectable satiety was short-lived – Severus had been a long time without a lover, if he had ever truly had one. After they had quietly and contentedly lain nestled together for some time, Emily felt him engaging her attentions again, his lips on her ear, her cheek, the side of her neck; felt the beginning of another extremely fine erection against her thigh. She responded eagerly, pulling him back over her – but he had other ideas, lifting her off the mattress and deftly poising her above him. She took a long, tantalising time to slide down onto his full length, enjoying his tense anticipation and the purely mammalian pleasure of his hard size filling her – and then there was nothing but the taste of his breath, the feel of his chest under her breasts, the silken scrape of clitoris against male pelvic bone, and his hands on her breasts, back, and hips.

She took a fistful of thick black hair and pulled his throat taut, tenderly sinking her teeth into his neck in that way she knew he liked – and was rewarded with a long, shivering groan. Now she was trying to hold herself back from the frenzy of that first time, savouring his responses; exploring how and where he liked to be kissed, experimenting with how this rhythm or that stroke made him breathe shallowly or gasp aloud. It went on until she couldn't draw it out any longer, couldn't tease him or herself one second more, and the second orgasm shuddered through her until she collapsed, panting, onto his chest. His hands convulsed on her hips, and she felt heat spasming up within her, accompanied by more of those devastated baritone groans.

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From then on, Emily lost track of how long or how often they had each other that night. There needed to be nothing else in the world at that moment but a dark room, a bed, and her onetime enemy – who had again become her impossibly exciting new lover. He seemed possessed of a desperate, feverish energy that provoked an equally fierce answering response in her. Time slipped by as if in a thrilling hallucination – now and then she would notice that they had turned to face a different wall, or that she had draped him on his back and was covering him now, whilst he had had her bent over the headboard and had been taking her from behind not long ago, or that now her lips were on his mouth or his ear or his neck or his damp forehead. This was the most loved and desired she had felt in a very long time, since (admit it) – since her wedding night, and she never wanted it to end.

Her fingers were interlaced with his, unless they were threaded through his hair, or clutching at his back in supplication. She could smell her own scent all over his skin, his sweat all over hers, and the maddening pheromone tang of semen spilled on the sheets, on her thighs. All was urgent, dark, and almost silent but for their ragged breathing; neither of them needed much by way of sentimental words spoken. They had talked long enough, been lost in mazes of words and subtext – now it was time for a more primal and immediate form of communication, a consummation for which they had both long and devoutly wished. Speech was only soft, broken syllables whispered in one's lover's ear; praise, encouragement, urging –

Oh, Severus... oh please... yes, love...

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Some hours after 6:53 p.m. that night, or perhaps the next morning – Professor Severus Marcus Antonius Snape was savouring the very new sensation of lying in his bed with his new lover sleeping in his arms, after having been tenderly and enthusiastically shagged into such complete exhaustion that he could hardly move.

Perhaps ten minutes earlier, Emily had collapsed at his side, tucked her head into the nook of his shoulder in the cosiest manner imaginable, and twined her arms around him. He had bent to kiss her, only to discover that she had fallen asleep there, her tousled head pillowed on his shoulder – soft, rhythmic exhalations of breath, the warm heaviness of her relaxation against his side.

He lay back on the pillow, holding her, and sighed.

Bloody hell, what a great night this had been. The best date of his life, bar none. There had been ten months between their first and second dates, and about six weeks between their second and third, but truly, this had been worth waiting for.

Please do that again, she had entreated him, as though concealing this burden of desire was now too heavy of a task to be borne. Well, how could he have resisted an invitation like that. He replayed the moment in his mind, just savouring the sound of the words...

Please... do that... again.

Yes, love, he'd be happy to do that again, and again, and again. You poor, deprived creature, you only had to ask properly. Then the way she kissed him – like a randy schoolgirl to the nth power, in a way that made his cock forget that he was thirty-five and had made love only once since 1981, that made him feel like a virgin of eighteen again. Her breath tasted like smooth old whiskey, which he actually liked even better than Chateau Latour burgundy.

Then she had all but torn his clothes off – oh, that had been exquisite – he had no idea where his most expensive pair of cufflinks had gotten to, probably on the floor somewhere, and he didn't even care. Her excitement had been impossibly contagious; she'd been absolutely panting to have him inside her... any man alive would have found his inner satyr faced with such provocation, and he was no different. Gods, he'd had to look at her all year, seen all that superb physicality sweating and out of breath, remembering every instant that I am not and never will be the bloke who's sleeping with her. And tonight she'd been begging him now, please, now to make love to her, and that had been enough to make him about as hard as he'd ever been in his life.

That first time had been the callbox all over again, the callbox to the exponential power, only now he'd had most of a year to lust for her and brood over that lust alone, and resent her for leaving him alone with this discontent. But tonight – when he felt her writhing beneath him as she came, heard those estrogen-drenched cries again – yes, my darling, go on, enjoy yourself, yes – bloody hell, he was surprised he'd managed to contain himself long enough to have another round of mad rutting before he came like to make a fellow faint. Gods, that quim and those lips of hers ought to be a controlled substance.

And that was just the first time.

The second had been incredible as well. Of course the pureblooded romantic model demanded that a man of his breeding could only make love in the missionary position and sire lots of blond pureblooded children thereby, but damn it – he liked having his woman on top, he just had a taste for it that wouldn't go away. Plus, he had just that evening made the discovery that the muscularity of a fencer's thighs allowed her to perform many other physical feats beyond an impossibly quick advance, retreat, and lunge.

The third time had also been delectable, when he'd coaxed her up onto her knees against the headboard and covered her from behind, which allowed him to devour her neck and shoulders while caressing her breasts... and she'd taken his hand and led his fingertips down into the damp folds between her thighs, showed him exactly the way to coax her into yet another writhing orgasm – there was simply not one breath of shame or self-consciousness about her, as though she'd just never been taught sex was anything other than a joy and a pleasure.

And the fourth time they'd wrestled each other about like one of their sparring sessions on the practice mat – first she had pinned him on his back, then after enjoying that for awhile, he'd used one of the grappling moves she'd taught him that year, thrown her onto her back, and held her down, his fingers interlacing with hers, and let himself fulfill every idle fantasy he'd had that year about overpowering her and making her give in to him, and after about five minutes of that she'd been yowling with orgasm again... oh yes, they were going to have to do that again. Often. Frequently.

Could there have been anything more enjoyable than draping that impossibly supple boneless wonder of a body all over his bed and making her come in as many different ways as humanly possible, starting in a mad frenzy of rut and then getting slower, more sensual, and more tenderly explicit every time they took each other again. He'd wanted her like that all year, just hot and receptive and up for anything... and it hadn't been Bel – someone else's sort of brazen, insolent, taboo-flaunting sexual confidence either; that happy-cat-being-stroked quality he had noticed about her on the night they met really seemed to be her natural state.

If he'd had one iota of tension left in his body, he'd have gotten hard again at the recollection, but now, for a moment – pleasant exhaustion, contentment, peace. There needed to be no world outside the circle made by the two of them, nothing more important than the profundity of being alone with his one chosen other. Yes, she was still here, sleeping beside him, and this was his life, and it had happened, to him. And it was entirely possible that it would happen again tomorrow, if the two of them didn't come to hate each other in the interval in between – but somehow, he couldn't see that happening. Merlin's teeth, she could actually take criticism of her academic articles reasonably well, how rare was that.

He felt the smallest twinge of disappointment that she was already asleep, because there were things he would have liked to tell her that night. He would have liked for her to know that she was his first lover in fourteen years. He also wanted to tell her how important it was to him that she had been the first woman to ever approach him of her own volition, simply because he intrigued her, without any ulterior motives in mind. That this was the first time, in all of his life, that he had ever had a lover sleeping beside him – but he wasn't about to wake her up to tell her how delicious it was to have her there with him.

Instead, he extended a hand toward the bedside lamp, whispering Lumos, followed by an inaudible word, and let the light come up just a bit, so that he could see her more clearly. She was lying on her side in what seemed to him a state of enviable relaxation, a slight film of perspiration sheening her neck and pale hairline, hair a mess from thrashing on the pillows. Her expression seemed very peaceful, and the smallest, most satisfied smile was lingering on her face even as she slept.

Yes, he would have liked to talk to her that night, but she was tired, and there was tomorrow.

So he doused the lamp and stretched out beside her, encircling her waist with his arm. She stirred slightly, settling back against him with a soft sound of contentment, her slack fingers slipping down onto his wrist. It was only a small, unconscious gesture, but he nonetheless felt it all down the length of his spine.

He had no trouble sleeping that night.

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Severus awoke at a few minutes to six the next morning, as per his long-conditioned habit during the school year. He thought about getting up, showering, and Flooing a note down to the kitchens asking for a bit of breakfast to be sent up. But then he glanced toward the pillow next to his, and decided to allow himself the luxury of perhaps a quarter hour's further drowsing and contemplation of his companion, who was still sleeping next to him.

Emily was sprawled on her back next to him, one arm flung up onto the pillow. Her face was lightly flushed, a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and her dandelion-floss hair was very well mussed from the previous night's exertions.

He paused, looking at her, just enjoying that small, poignant pleasure known to so many men since time immemorial; that instant of waking up with the woman he most cares for lying contentedly asleep beside him. In moments like that, a lover can see rosy-fingered Dawn herself in the tousle-haired person snuffling into the pillow beside him, and Severus was not immune to these sorts of imaginings. And when he moved closer to her, draped an arm around her hips and nestled his own mussed head on the pillow with her, she settled herself against him with another long sigh, without ever waking up.

Such was the narcotic effect of such morning embraces that Severus did something he had done very rarely in all of his thirty-five years – after lightly kissing her forehead, he went back to sleep.

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Emily awoke at perhaps a few minutes past eight – to the delightful sensation of her new lover lying beside her.

He was still asleep, one arm around her waist, so close that she could feel the heat from his skin. So dignified, even while sleeping, his limbs composed gracefully, and his face relaxed into the most serene expression she had ever seen from him. She recalled that Albus had said something about how he suffered from fairly severe insomnia, and smiled happily, glad that her presence didn't seem to have disturbed his rest.

Yes, it looked as though she had to add a few new words to her impression of Professor Snape... of Severus. Lusty, sensuous, passionate, and now, incredibly – she wouldn't have believed it of him for a second unless she had been the person who fell asleep in his arms the night before – highly touchable. Not only had he been an affectionate lover the night before, he had actually wanted to spend quite a bit of time holding her after lovemaking. Under the right circumstances, with the right person – he genuinely seemed to like being caressed and held. Forget about all her impressions of him as a cold fish after the night they met – the man was about as physically cold as Vesuvius. She gave a catlike stretch, allowing herself an instant's incredibly smug, knowing smile.

But no, there was simply no way one could describe someone like him as cuddly or snuggly, those were words reserved for teddy bears and kittens. She wouldn't call him huggable, more like – savagely tactile. Fiercely embraceable. There, that was better. She was simply going to have to expand her vocabulary for describing male characteristics and behaviour. With him, it would be an absolute necessity.

She rolled over onto her left side, careful not to disturb him, and glanced curiously around the bedroom where she had awakened. During the previous night, she had been far too distracted to notice any details about his quarters, but now, she thought his bedroom looked a great deal like her own, up in Ravenclaw Tower – the same sort of heavy, carved furnishings of dark wood, vast bookshelves along the walls, a great four-poster bed with velvet draperies, fireplaces in every room – except his apartments were done in dark green velvet instead of blue, and were situated several storeys farther down. The only natural light in the room came from narrow transom windows set high up near the ceiling, at ground level. In winter it must have been gloomy, but now, in high summer, his rooms were pleasantly cool and dim. Severus's ideas of decor were much like hers as well – masses of books covering every surface – except he had well over a decade's head start on her at filling his bookshelves. Indeed, his shelves were overflowing to such an extent that he had started stacking tomes neatly against the walls. And where she had Arcadian armaments of every kind and description and state of repair in her rooms, he had jars of every description, holding a diverse assortment of substances. Some of them looked ordinary – dead roaches, butterfly wings – but some gave off their own light, or flittered incessantly inside their jars, or gave off ooky plashes and bubblings.

But now Severus had awakened as well – his chest sealed against her back from behind her, his hand outlining the pliant curve of her waist and hip, and then a fervent kiss to the back of her neck sent shivers all though her. Emily rolled over in bed and pulled him into her arms – it would be a long time before she got her fill of just holding him. Now that they were both fully rested, it was right back into the randy teenage kissing, morning breath be damned. After a moment, she let her hand trail down his stomach until she encountered a much more alert part of his body – and heard a soft intake of breath.

"My word, love, you're insatiable," he murmured.

"Sorry, I'll stop... "

"Please don't."

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Severus woke up from his unaccustomed lie-in at perhaps half-past eight a.m., shaking his head groggily – well that was odd, he must have gone back to sleep. Emily was awake, resting her head on her arm, close beside him with her back to him, seemingly just looking at his rooms. He glanced down at her left shoulder – yes, it did seem to have healed nicely, though perhaps the long white scar left behind would disappear all the faster if he applied a few compresses of the new Healing Potion to it, he'd have to mention that to her later today. And yes, come to think of it, her sword arm's side was more muscularly defined than the other.

Then she stretched luxuriously, and nothing could have been more enticing to him than her unselfconscious nudity, the sight of that back flexing, those breasts lifting. Merlin's teeth, he had thought she looked good freshly shagged in a steamy callbox, with her dress half-unbuttoned and her hair mussed, breathing hard and her eyes a little unfocused, as though surprised by how much she'd enjoyed herself. While he had watched the two of them in the Pensieve, he'd thought she was quite seductive on the Knight Bus with her silk skirts rucked up and her black-gartered thigh wrapped around his hip. But damn it all to hell if she wasn't a vision of enticing carnality waking up naked in his bed on the morning after their first night together. Come here, you. Allow me to show you why you want to sleep with me again tonight.

He wrapped himself around her from behind, and lowered his lips to the back of her neck, and what felt like a moment later, her mouth was open under his and he was lying over her again, that shameless hand caressing him – gods, she knew exactly what he liked – and then the aching morning erection that woke him up so often sank into her with a welcoming groan. Was there any pleasure in this world to compare with this, her long sigh when he began to make love to her again, that body enfolding him, her neck bared under his lips... this was all almost too much like one of his hopeless sexual fantasies about her during the school year to be real. But from the way she was responding, her husky breath in his ear, her hands caressing his back and shoulders, grinding up into his thrusts... she seemed to be enjoying this as much as he was.

There seemed to him no better way to start one's morning after a long night of desperately intense lovemaking than with another lusty, sleepy go at it just after waking up; and there is perhaps no greater charge to a man's ego than the feel of his lover's unabashed orgasm beneath him. As before in the callbox and the previous night, the sensation of her climax was enough to send him into his own a moment later, and he collapsed over her, panting. It was a long time before either of them moved or spoke.

At last he disengaged from her, to sprawl against the pillows beside her. But after a moment, possessed by an instant's self-consciousness, he lowered his lips to her ear, and whispered – "That was... all right, for you, wasn't it? And last night... ?"

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Emily chuckled softly, surprised there could be any question. "My dear. From the first night I met you onward, you have always and invariably made me come like a howling animal every time we've had each other. So yes, it was 'All right' for me," she said, with a long sigh. "I just hope it's as good for you."

He averted his eyes almost shyly, his head falling onto her shoulder.

"Severus? What is it?"

"Just... er, trying to formulate a reply to a remark like that," he said.

She felt his cheek growing hot against her shoulder, his scent suffusing with acid self-consciousness – "My word – is the Head of Slytherin House actually blushing?"

"Well, it's not every day that a bloke wakes up to someone saying things like that to him."

Emily laughed again, her arms tightening around him. He fit into her embrace so perfectly, not a breath of awkwardness, as though her arms had been designed to go round him, and her shoulder had been modelled with the intent of giving him a comfortable place to rest his head. Oh, you're adorable, she thought. Will you ever know how much I love you.

But she resolved to say nothing about such feelings just yet; it was still so early on, and she didn't want to make him feel pressured, or hurried to catch up to her level of commitment. Three dates and one night together did not a relationship make, so she decided to be patient.

"Well, at the rate you're going, my dear, you may just have to get accustomed to waking up to such things said to you," she pointed out, with another long sigh. "Bloody hell, I should have launched an all-out campaign to win you over the second I arrived at Hogwarts."

He propped himself up on one elbow and slanted a look of reproach at her. "Yes, you should have."

As always, his fine sarcastic wit was honed to a razor's edge, softened only slightly by post-coital satisfaction – and Emily laughed till her eyes teared. "All right, all right, my dear. I suppose I deserve that."

"Bloody right you do," he grumbled, which only made her laugh harder. "But really – can you stay for a bit?" he continued, his voice barely audible, his lips moving against her cheek.

"Oh, yes." She closed her eyes and sighed, just basking in his nearness, his wonderful, relaxed, affectionate mood, the warmth of his skin on hers. "I'm not going anywhere."

From that morning onward, there was no question – they would be spending the next night together as well, and probably many more after that. The pairbond simply existed now, vital and undeniable, as though the two separate halves had melded together into an indissoluble whole. It had either grown up overnight, or had been there from the first night they met, waiting for them to acknowledge it.

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"I was going to make tea," he murmured, bending toward her ear. "Would you like a cup?"

"Please. I need to do a little rehydrating after last night."

"Absolutely." Severus turned toward his wardrobe and held out his hand, and said "Accio dressing gown" followed by an inaudible word. The wardrobe door opened to allow a charcoal-grey flannel robe to fly out into his hand. A moment later, he got up, knotting the robe's belt around his waist, and took out a teakettle and two mugs from one of the cupboards in his sitting room. "Let's see... is mint tarragon all right?"

"Sounds lovely, thank you."

A moment later, he brought two steaming mugs back to bed, reclining comfortably beside her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, what is it?" she asked, taking one of the cups from him.

"Should we be at all worried about what anyone else thinks of our, er, associating with each other?" he asked, giving her a very serious look over the top of his mug.

"Don't worry, I think we can assume Albus approves," she said, blowing on her tea.

"Actually, I meant Malfoy," he said, after a long pause.

"Oh. Him." She grimaced. "Last night, I sent him a letter implying that I'm expecting my oestrus to start any day, and can't see him for something like the next few years."

"Years?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking.

"All right, I was kind of unspecific on the exact amount of time. It really lasts about a week to ten days, but he'll believe anything I tell him, he's hardly a Fae gynecologist."

"When did you really last have it?" he asked.

"Late December. The week of the Yule Ball and the Ministry Ball, unfortunately. I'm sorry if I was sort of awful then," she said ruefully.

"Oh," he said, nodding. "Perhaps makes you blow a bit hot and cold, then, does it?"

"Well... the hormones are such that... but acting on it means that... oh, you know."

"So... for lack of a better description, you were in heat, but didn't want to end up pregnant," he muttered. "That explains a lot."

"You see, when I was around you then, I would get – but I wasn't sure that you would... but even if you did, I couldn't do anything about it without – and as a result, my mood was... iffy." She averted her eyes with a very self-conscious sip of tea.

"I'll remember that," he interjected gently. "And you do know that things like Contraceptus potions and Muggle barrier contraceptives exist, right? Perhaps there are ways of making the next one a bit less of a painful exercise in self-denial." He stroked insinuating fingertips down her arm.

Emily imagined being in oestrus... and being able to take Severus to bed during oestrus, without worrying about any unwanted consequences resulting from it. The thought of that was such to make her wish that she really was in heat at the moment.

"So your next fertile period won't happen until this December?" he asked.

"They don't come at regular twelve-month intervals for me – it's usually thirteen or fourteen months in between. Some years when I have to train or fight a lot and get very thin, I don't have them at all. So I'd say next February or March."

"And you weren't seeing, ahem, anyone in December?"

"No." She looked away from him in embarrassment.

"How long do we have until we have to worry about him, then?" he asked, subtle fingertips stroking her shoulder.

"I'd say two weeks at most."

Severus put his empty tea mug aside and stood up, then picked up a towel from the clean stack on the dresser top, and put it in her lap.

"All right then. Get showered and dressed. Then we'll get some breakfast and get packed, and be on our way."

Emily looked at him, mystified, raking a hand through her pillow-tousled hair. "Get packed? Be on our way?"

"Yes, let's get out of here for a bit," he said decisively. "There's somewhere I'd like to go with you. Let's not waste any time."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Have you ever been to Orkney? Far up north, beyond Scotland?"

"No. What's in Orkney?"

"The weather is sort of variable this time of year – anything from hot sunshine to rain showers. You'll need to pack for everything. You'll want to bring an armful of books and an umbrella. And be sure to bring some heavy boots so we can go down to the beach and watch the Selkies."

"What's in Orkney? Tell me."

He turned around and leaned on the dresser, grinned obliquely at her through an untidy mass of black hair. "Snape Hall, of course."

"Snape Hall. Sounds frightfully ancestral."

"It is."

She slanted an eyebrow at him. "Should I worry about running into any ancestors while we're there?"

"Only their portraits on the walls. Other than that, I'm afraid I'm the last one of the Snapes."

"Sorry," she said gently.

"Oh, I'm not. There were some decent sorts of them centuries ago, but with the exception of my father's parents, the last few centuries only seem to have produced a lot of land-grubbing robber barons, whose ill-gotten gains were all then lost by about four generations of rotten business management and bad investments. When I die I'll leave the whole sorry lot of it to some Orcadian Wizarding History society and let them make a museum out of it or something."

"That really doesn't bother you?"

He sprawled beside her on the bed. "Not a bit. Come on – do you see me frantically racing around looking for some blonde pureblooded virgin to bear my heir so I can carry on the family name? It's such a gorgeous family name, after all. Who wouldn't want to be called Something Pretentiously Latinate With Two Middle Names Snape, if given the chance... " He rolled his eyes at the ceiling with dire eloquence.

Emily laughed until her shoulders shook, collapsing beside him on the bed. Oh, she loved this man. "Well, now that I think of it, you do seem rather indifferent to the usual mania for breeding an heir and a spare."

"As do you, thank Merlin. Now let's hurry – I want to be out of here by lunchtime." He paused, then looked at her again. "If that time is all right with you."

"We could leave earlier if you like," she offered. "I'll grab a quick breakfast while I'm packing."

"All right then. While you're in the shower I'll send an owl to the house-elves and let them know to have the place ready for us."

"The Orcadian and the Arcadian. That is just too bloody precious. How come you haven't got a Northern Scottish burr?"

He slanted an oblique smile at her. "I used to have one. Now into the shower with you. There are some new toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet."

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"All right then. I'll just take a minute."

She put her empty tea mug aside, got up, gave him a final leisurely kiss, tossed the towel over her shoulder, and disappeared into the bathroom. All quite casually, and without bothering to put on a stitch of clothing.

Severus leaned back against the pillows with a long sigh. Yes... that was a sight he could get used to, all right. The sound of the water started up in the bathroom.

After a moment, he got out of his dressing gown, and pulled on some plain black trousers and a pullover, socks and boots, then raked a brush through his untidy hair. Once he was reasonably presentable, he made his way out of the Slytherin dungeons, and toward the Headmaster's office.

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Argus Filch had returned from his holiday in Brighton only the previous night, but as per his usual habit, he was up with the dawn, patrolling the castle corridors with his constant companion, Mrs. Norris. He had spent most of the morning checking over the house-elves' cleaning projects completed since he had been away, and had found that the elves had carried out their work with characteristic extreme diligence.

On his way up from the sub-basements to the highest staircases, Filch ran into Professor Snape coming up from the Slytherin dungeons, apparently making his way toward Dumbledore's office. Snape didn't look any different than usual, but somehow Filch thought there was something odd about him this morning. Something about the way he moved.

This could not be said to be Snape's usual stalking sort of gait – in truth, this was really more of a stroll. Almost, verging upon but not quite, a strut. Now and then, it could even be said to approach a swagger. He paused before a window, looking out at the view, it seemed, just because the view was beautiful, and it pleased him to look at it.

This was, truth be told, just about the single best mood Filch could remember ever having seen from Professor Snape. He had seen something approaching this the day after a Leaving Feast sometime in the eighties not long after Snape had been promoted to Head of House, in which Slytherin had taken both the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup by a spectacular margin of points, but somehow this was... different.

After a moment, Professor Snape seemed to get his fill of gazing at the summertime fields around Hogwarts, and resumed his walk down the hall. He nodded rather pleasantly to Filch as he passed him. "Good morning, Argus."

"Morning," Filch replied.

When Snape had moved out of earshot, Mrs. Norris cocked her head at Filch, and chirruped an interrogative Mrrrowwwr?

"No bloody idea what's gotten into him either," Filch told her.

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Albus Dumbledore looked up from pouring birdseed into a tray on Fawkes's perch when Snape knocked on his office door. "Come in. Ah, good morning, Severus."

"Good morning, sir. I'd, er... I'd like to take a week or two and visit the Orkney house, if you think the idea of leaving Hogwarts isn't too dangerous. And if you don't have any pressing duties for me at the moment."

"No, I think Snape Hall is still as secure as ever, if the wards and Unplottability Spells are still in place. I think we can cover for you." Dumbledore gazed affectionately at Fawkes' brilliant crested head as the Phoenix pecked at his breakfast.

"Good," Snape said. "And... do you also think you could find someone to cover for – " he cleared his throat self-consciously – "Professor Swain as well?"

Dumbledore looked up, chipper as a squirrel. "Why? Is she going somewhere?"

Snape cleared his throat again. "I thought she might... have a fancy to observe the summer Selkie migration – their songs can be quite pleasant."

Dumbledore looked at him for a moment, blinking. Then a faint, delighted smile lit his blue eyes. "Yes... no doubt she will find that very diverting. I hope both of you have a lovely time."

"Thank you, sir." Snape gratefully made for the door.

"Severus?"

"Yes?" He turned back around.

"I'm glad to see the two of you ironing out your differences," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.

Thought Snape: Yes, aren't you surprised, you ruddy great meddling white-bearded Cupid.

Said Snape: "Thank you very much, sir," and left the Headmaster's office.

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Well. What to bring for a stay of undefined length at Snape Hall in Orkney, north of Scotland.

Emily brought out her Holding Trunk and had it open on her bed as she nibbled on some toast, fruit, and tea, and got out clothes and shoes from the closet, directing them into the trunk with gestures of her hand. Stout boots for walking on the beach, shirts and trousers, a raincoat, a parka, some cloaks, some sexy black lingerie, a few sundresses, a cashmere cardigan, skirts and camisoles, an umbrella, all the books on her shelves that she hadn't yet read or was planning on re-reading sometime in the near future, toiletries, a couple of satin dressing gowns. She probably wouldn't need any real weaponry, but it might be fun to do some sport fencing while they were there, so she added fencing equipment as well.

Was she ready? Well, perhaps she could bring some sparkly jewels – ? Not the diamond collar or emerald serpent bracelet, those were far too ostentatious. Her black pearls, definitely. The diamond earrings, yes, those were pretty but not too over-the-top. She lingered over the black diamond heart... it was so elegant and simple, and would go so nicely with all her little black dresses... but in the end, she decided no, it was just a little too much. She definitely needed to bring some violet oil and makeup, and that scandalous little silk chemise. And maybe a pretty satin waist corset. Why not a few more bits of sexy black lingerie.

As she was going through her closet, two or three of her dresses slipped off their hangers and fell to the floor in puddles of spidersilk. Emily picked them up with a little breath of impatience – her Arcadian silk dresses were sometimes difficult to keep hung up, due to the slipperiness and weightlessness of the fabric, so this was a fairly commonplace occurrence. Much of the reason why the pooka weavers liked to bead their creations was that it weighed the material down enough to hang properly.

As she went to hang the last dress – a mermaid-green silk with narrow straps and a subtle pattern of silver beading like the shimmering scales of a fish – back up, she remembered when she had gotten this particular frock. She had been a rough-and-tumble little girl, who practically lived on the back of her pony, always muddying her clothes and tearing them in the branches of trees. Knowing this, her parents had dressed her very simply, usually in a boy's shirt, riding breeches, and paddock boots for when she wasn't tearing around on her bare hooves. But then she had gone off to school in France, and spent a great deal of time in Paris. By her late teens, she had finally become enamoured with pretty clothes and shoes. Her mother had given her this little green frock as a surprise gift the summer she was eighteen, on the occasion of their trip to the Second World for Lucius Malfoy's wedding. She remembered opening the box and finding this beautiful green dress inside, one that had the unmistakable air of a "creation" of Court fashion – the kind of dress Elaine often wore, but had never given to her before. With this gift, it was as if her mother had finally said to her – You, my daughter, are a lovely woman now.

Then Emily suddenly remembered something Severus had asked her during that memorable night at the Mushroom Circle – Why do you never wear green anymore? Didn't you wear green at Lucius's wedding? and she had replied, It's been about sixteen years, I don't remember. Now, with that very dress in her hands, she realised that indeed, she had.

But how did he know that? Had he been there? She didn't recall noticing a tall, thin young man with striking pale and dark colouring at that event, didn't think she had been introduced to him. Why would he remember, correctly, the colour of the dress she had worn?

It was just odd.

Impulsively, she packed the green dress in her trunk. In all likelihood there would be no reason to wear it, but who knew what they would be doing up in Orkney. Perhaps they would go out for a formal dinner or some such, and it would be nice to wear a gown that she already knew he liked.

But once she had finishing packing and dressed to go out, she heard the familiar scritch-flitter-rustle of a messenger owl at her window, some small brown post office hireling from the looks of him. The letter was written in Lucius's ornate handwriting, and she opened it with some trepidation, wondering if her excuses had been believed:

Darling –

Oh no, how terribly inconvenient! Yes, I do recall the promise you made me to stay away and not let me lure you into bed during your oestrus, but please forgive me if I'm finding that promise terribly inconvenient about now as well.

Yes, you're right, I think a short separation is necessary at this time, because Merlin knows I can resist everything but temptation. If I was to have you about me now, I know damned well that I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you, and we would start our brood too early. So yes, you'd best keep yourself locked away at Hogwarts with the portcullis drawn and your doors bolted against all interlopers, because the very thought of you coming into heat is enough to drive me to desperation.

However... if you find the temptation too much to resist, you have my full permission to disregard that promise to stay away. You know I'd absolve you of any breach of faith if you want to come to me anyway, and very secure and secret arrangements can be made for whatever consequences arise from it. You know I'd do anything for you, my love... you have only to extend your hand and ask.

"Not bloody likely," Emily snapped. She wadded up that letter and threw it away, but not without some sense of relief. The ruse had worked, and she had bought herself some time.

With that, she picked up her bag, and went to meet Severus.

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After clearing their holiday plans with Dumbledore, Severus had gone up to the Owlery and dispatched a note to the house-elves at Snape Hall, letting them know to expect him and a guest for a visit later that day. Then, he headed back to his apartments to shower, pack, and get a bit of breakfast. The elves had collected the supper dishes from the previous night, and someone had made the bed and gathered up his clothes from the previous evening and put them in a neat pile on a chair, and put his best cufflinks neatly away in the wooden tray on his dresser, next to his watch. Emily had finished her shower and left, but there was a little note propped up on his desk:

Meet you in the foyer at 11 a.m., which is of course really 10:53 Snape Standard Time.

Thanks for dinner. You're a lovely host.

~ E

You're very welcome, my dear, he murmured to himself. That lovely host then made his way into the shower with an even more decided swagger in his step.

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After Dumbledore gave Fawkes his breakfast, he lingered about his office performing various administrative duties, and answered some correspondence. Then he remembered some instructions he had wanted to give to Argus Filch, regarding repairs to one of the greenhouses to be made that summer. He got up and headed down to Filch's office.

But as he went down the twisting maze of staircases from his office to Filch's, he turned a corner and came upon a sight that made him stop short and his eyes widen – Professor Snape was standing in a small windowed alcove off one of the staircases adjacent to the great main foyer, dressed in smart black travelling clothes, his damp hair sleekly combed, with a much-used but well-polished black case beside him. He was leaning an elbow on the windowsill and gazing out, apparently without a care in the world. A second later, Professor Swain joined him in the alcove, also smartly dressed in black, and carrying a small trunk. She put her bag aside, then put her arms around Snape's neck with an absolutely enormous smile, and kissed him – and he put his arms around her and quite lustily kissed her back. On their way out of town then, just pausing in the shadowy alcove for a moment's embrace before they left.

It is rare to look upon a perfect unit of any sort – but this... this was Rodin's The Kiss. Or, perhaps some little-known canvas by a less pastoral Pre-Raphaelite, Hades and Persephone, the goddess of the spring successfully wooed and won by the brooding lord of the underworld. There was a certain look on Severus's face as his new lover came happily into his arms to greet him – perhaps that look sent a pang of recognition through Dumbledore's heart, of something intoxicating and never forgotten. Severus's dark head inclined to Emily's fair one, and he murmured something in her ear that made her look up, eyes shining, and kiss him again.

Suddenly Dumbledore's instructions to Filch could wait, and he silently turned and started back up to his office, lest the two of them realise their tender moment had been observed. As he made his way through the stone corridors of the castle, he smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that he had done a very good thing indeed.

"Sometimes I outdo even myself," Dumbledore murmured as he blithely strolled back up to his office.

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At 10:53 on the dot, Severus was waiting for (my lovely travelling companion, Miss Swain) just off the great main foyer – and perhaps a minute later, she had breezed up with what he thought was a glowingly well-satisfied smile on her face, and kissed him thoroughly before he even got a chance to say Good morning.

"Hello, good to see you too," he murmured dryly, once she let him have his lips back for a second. "I see someone's in rather a good mood today... " She just laughed, and kissed him again. Had there been anyone else around, this effusive greeting would have made him self-conscious, but since they were alone, and after what had happened that morning and the previous night – well, he could indulge her.

She was looking very well, as usual; clean, loose hair and clear eyes and fresh, translucent skin, and just happened to be wearing one of her little black frocks that he especially liked, the short diaphanous one with all the little silver buttons down the front. "Smart as this frock is, it might be a bit light for the Orcadian coast. You might want to put on a cloak."

"All right, one second then – " She opened her trunk, leaned down into it so that her entire head and shoulders disappeared into its depths, from whence he heard a muffled – "Accio black embroidered cloak." A second later, she straightened up with a cloak in her hand, a thing of supple velvet with a subtle pattern of silver embroidery on the inside of the hood, of a style that somehow seemed vaguely familiar to him. "How's this? Do I need something heavier?"

"No, this looks fine." She threw the cloak over her shoulders, and he absently tidied her hood as she fastened the silver clasp in front.

"This looks fine?" Emily glanced questioningly at him for a second. "I thought you didn't like for me to wear so much black."

Severus's mouth quirked – ah, this might be a good time to get in a compliment on her appearance; in his experience, women quite enjoyed those. "Actually, if you want to know the bitter truth, I think you're one of the few women I've ever met who really knows how to dress."

"Oh, stop it," she said, with a downcast smile, but her tone invited him to continue at length and in detail if he so desired.

"When we were both at that dreadful tea at Malfeasant in November, I recall thinking how painted and stiff and overdone most of the others looked by comparison to you." Oh, why not lay it on with a trowel, since she seemed to actually be enjoying his pathetic attempts at flattery.

"Then why the crack about 'Try the black frock,' then?" she asked, slanting another poignant look up at him – what a little flirt.

"Please, do I have to spell everything out? Because I wanted to go to bed with you, but had to settle for being an arse at breakfast," he said, leaning forward and murmuring into her ear, blushing slightly at his own daring.

She laughed hugely at that. "So the real truth comes out. That makes a great deal of sense."

"I always make a great deal of sense," he assured her, taking up his bag. "Now, are we ready?"

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"Yes, I think we are."

It gave Emily the most wonderful girlish thrill to be heading off for parts unknown with Professor Snape – no, Severus – as her escort and host, especially when she'd arrived to meet him and discovered him looking so handsome and sophisticated, in a terribly dashing and Edwardian frock coat, vest and tie. And he's going on holiday with me, she thought, trying to look a bit more like an elegant lady who went on these sorts of romantic holidays all the time, and a bit less like a besotted teenager at her first Beltane. It seemed absolutely natural and unremarkable for her to take his arm after they both picked up their bags and started out of the castle, and he let his elbow crook under the light pressure of her hand as though they had been walking arm-in-arm forever and were both quite used to it.

But then a little, keening voice sounded behind them as they made their way down the front steps of Hogwarts – "Mistress? Mistress Professor is please not leaving without me?"

Emily turned around to see Cecile, her refugee of a house-elf, standing timorously in the castle doorway. She was wearing another starched black pillowcase with a fringed guest towel shawl around her shoulders, and had her little pillowcase satchel in her hand.

"The faithful Panza follows her Quixote," Severus muttered. "Imprinted on you like a gosling, that one."

"Would it be all right?" Emily asked, looking at her companion. "She really is a hard worker."

"Well," he said dubiously, "truthfully I'm not planning on spending a lot of time supervising elves during this holiday." One look let her know with whom he had planned on spending his time during this visit, which produced a delicious shiver in the pit of her stomach.

"Believe me, neither am I," she replied. "But she really doesn't require a whole lot of supervision, and she's very good about not bothering me when I ask her to."

"Well... all right, I suppose – knowing her, she'd be heartbroken if you left her behind. There are other elves to keep her company, and Merlin knows there's always plenty of work to do around Snape Hall."

"Thank you very much – I promise she won't be a bother," she said, putting a light kiss on his cheek, then turned to Cecile, holding out her hand. "All right then, come along, Cecile, hurry!"

"Yes!" Cecile rushed up to Emily's side and put her slender little hand in hers. Severus put his arm around Emily's waist, and second later, the three of them vanished with a crack of Apparition.

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A gust of cool sea air blasted Emily's hair off her shoulders as they Disapparated, accompanied by the explosive crash of waves pounding against a beach. They had arrived on a sandy promontory surrounded by a low fence of piled stones, from which wide stone steps led down onto the most dramatic beach Emily had ever seen. A craggy cliff face of grey stone rose over a hundred feet above them, and at its base was a rocky beach full of shallow rockpools and mussel-covered boulders. Some ways from shore, a series of towering stone pinnacles broke the churning surface of the ocean like a row of tall black sentries, battered by waves that sent white spray high into the air. She let go of Cecile's hand and set down her trunk, just staring ahead of her in amazement.

"Ooooh!" A tremendous squeal sounded to Emily's right – Cecile was clasping her hands in front of her and excitedly bouncing up and down. "We be at the SEASHORE!" the elf cried.

Emily fell against Severus's shoulder laughing; even he smirked a bit. "Yes, so we are," he said.

Cecile quieted immediately, peering up at him apologetically. "Sorry, Mister Professor, sir... I has never seen the sea," she murmured, big-eyed. "I has only seen the insides of castles, mostly."

"Don't worry, I think that's a wholly appropriate reaction. Just look at this – we're at the seashore!" Emily leaned over the stone fence, craning over it to see out as far as she could. "Severus, you live around here?"

"The house is up at the top of the hill," he said, indicating the rocky cliffs above them – and then his eyes met hers in a way that made the shivers start in her stomach again.

Emily turned toward Cecile – "Ah, Cecile, dear... why don't you run up ahead to the front door, and wait for us, please," she said.

"Can Cecile be taking your and Mr. Professor's trunks?" the elf asked, desperate to be helpful.

"You can if you like, but aren't they a mite heavy... ?" But Cecile just threw her own little satchel over her shoulder and caught up the handles of both their trunks, and hefted them with the ease of a worker ant with a wheat grain as large as itself.

"No, Mistress – " A moment later, she had vanished with a puff of grey smoke.

Severus joined her at the fence's edge, his arms winding around her waist, and she leaned cosily back against him. "Honestly, how do you like it?" he asked quietly. "There are those who think it's very gloomy and isolated up here. The seas can get quite loud... you can hear them for miles during storms, and such."

"That's all right. My bedroom window at home looks out on the biggest river you can imagine, and I always loved the sound of it lulling me to sleep."

It occurred to Emily at that moment that this rocky beach, with its view of the crashing seas and majestic stone pinnacles and wild sea breezes blowing their hair crazily around their faces, was the most romantic setting imaginable in which to give a man a very long, slow, tender, and adoring kiss, and then she turned to her companion, took him in her arms, and did just that.

"Don't worry about those who think it's gloomy and isolated here," she told him. "I think it's absolutely beautiful."

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That promontory on the beach led up the side of the cliff by means of several flights of stone steps cut into the cliff face, which then let out into a thick stand of tall, massive Scotch oaks, easily hundreds of years old. At the top, Severus offered her his hand to help her up the last few steps, then led her along a gravel path leading northwest through the trees.

"Mistress!"

Cecile ran up to the two of them as they emerged from the oak wood, all a-twitter with excitement. "This castle is BIG!" she announced, wide-eyed.

Emily looked up – and got her first view of Snape Hall. She stopped short, staring silently ahead for a long moment.

"So it is," she murmured finally.

"Well, perhaps it's not as opulent as Malfeasant, but it's home," her host said quietly.

"Forget Malfeasant – Severus, this is magnificent," Emily gasped, staring at the tall edifice of weathered grey stone before her. "Flying buttresses, ribbed vaults, ogee arches – when did they start building this, the thirteenth century?"

"Earlier, actually," he told her, taking her arm and leading her up through the stone courtyard toward the front door. "They dug the foundation for the first wing sometime in the late tenth century, I believe, around the time Canute the Great was born. But yes, a lot of expansion went on in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries – that's when the central, east, and west wings were built. The oldest part is the northernmost wing around the back, but after about a thousand years of rain its roof isn't safe, so we probably won't be spending much time there. I live in the west and central wings – the rest of it has been closed off for some time. I'm afraid Snape Hall saw its glory days before Edinburgh Castle was even built, but I'm still fond of it, for some strange reason," he said, perhaps a touch defensively, Emily thought.

"Of course you are – who wouldn't be."

Her companion ushered her into a vast front hall ornamented with timelessly graceful cluster columns, arches of carved stone, and many-paned windows three storeys high, then held the door for Cecile as she traipsed in with the luggage. Emily wandered forward into the hall, her hands clasped before her in amazement, gazing reverently up at the ceiling.

"The only thing I've ever seen like this is Wells Cathedral," she called, her voice carrying easily amidst the stone walls and floor. Here and there a stone brazier sputtered to life as she passed. She came closer to one of the tall, vast windows, antique hand-blown glass faded to the soft greenish blue of rainwater. She noticed a thick cobweb on one of the windowpanes, and removed it with a wave of her hand, a murmured incantation, and an inaudible word.

"I've not heard of Wells Cathedral – what's it like?" Severus asked, following her and taking her hand.

"It's this huge early gothic church in Somerset, built mostly in the late twelfth century. I'll take you there sometime, you might like it."

"Master Severus!" called a high-pitched voice, and a matronly house-elf scurried toward them, down a sweeping carved staircase at the back of the great entrance hall. She wore a linen pillowcase caftan and a cable-knit woollen lap robe shawl around her shoulders, and wore a heavy ring of keys on a leather string around her neck. "We is all glad to see you!"

Then the matron elf caught sight of Emily, and stopped short. Then – her large amber eyes took in this newcomer's hand in that of her Master Severus, and got very round indeed. "We is all very glad to see you, and your... lady friend." She dropped Emily a polite curtsy.

Severus turned an embarrassed look in Emily's direction, but she only laughed, then greeted the housekeeper with a bright smile. "Hello, I'm Emily. I'm glad to see you too."

"Yes – I suppose introductions should be made, shouldn't they," Severus said, turning toward the matron elf. "Philomela, this is Professor Emily Swain, my... very good friend. She'll be staying here with us for a week or two. Emily, this is Philomela, the housekeeper. She and her husband, Towrie, and their son Danceny look after the house."

"The Master's come to see us! Welcome home, sir! We has not been seeing you for the longest time!" Two more elves ran in from an arched doorway to the left, one young and robust, one rather stolid and gnarled, with tufts of grey hair around his batlike ears. Both of them wore linen pillow case togas and napkin kerchiefs tied around their necks.

Cecile peeped around Emily at the other three house-elves with wide eyes, then made a meek little curtsy. "Hellos to you all. I be Cecile, serving the Mistress Emily."

The matron elf curtsied back. "I be Philomela. This be my Towrie, and our boy Danceny. We is been serving the Snapes since Master Severus was not even born, we have."

"Ohhhh," Cecile said, impressed.

Towrie and Danceny took up both Emily's and Severus's bags – "Where be you wanting these to go, sir?"

"Why don't you put them both in my rooms in the westernmost corner... we'll decide what to do with them from there," he said.

"Yes, sir." Both elves disappeared in puffs of grey smoke.

Severus nodded toward Cecile. "If you please, then, just go along with Philomela, she'll get you situated and find you something to do."

Cecile looked at Emily – "If you is not needing anything, Mistress?"

"No, I'm fine." She sank to one knee, and motioned Cecile toward her for a brief aside. "I'm going to spend some time with Mr. Professor now, and I'll send for you if I need anything. But until then, go on with the others, dear, and help them with their work."

Cecile earnestly nodded her understanding, and scurried off to join Philomela. "Would you like to see my kitchens?" the housekeeper asked.

"The kitchens? Yes! Thank you!" Cecile cried.

Emily laughed softly as the two elves made their exit. "She's always thrilled whenever someone asks her if she wants to see a kitchen. Half our students don't get that excited about their Christmas holidays."

"Well, you know how house-elves are," Severus said, bringing her hand up to his lips and putting a brief, feeling kiss on her palm. "As for you, Miss Professor, perhaps you'd like to go have a look at the bedrooms upstairs?"

"The bedrooms?" she whispered. "Yes. Thank you."

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Emily was delighted with Snape Hall from her first glimpse of it, and now it seemed that the castle only became more beautiful the more she saw of it. Severus took her hand and led her up a magnificent staircase of carved marble, carpeted with a worn but beautiful Oriental rug that had to be a hundred feet long, down a wide gallery corridor ornamented with more fabulous stone carving, the occasional taper in tarnished silver wall sconces flickering to life as they passed. The corridor led to another vast hall, this one windowless and with a magnificent, peeling fresco of knights armed with lances after what looked like a highly aggressive black Hungarian Horntail dragon – "Oh, an ancestor rode with a King Pellinore once, after a dragon that had been terrorising the countryside. It was supposed to have been quite an exciting adventure," Severus said, glancing up matter-of-factly as they passed through the hall.

"I can imagine."

Severus led her through more galleries and corridors, then up a long winding staircase ornamented with more magnificent gothic carving, to a wide landing with four large doors. "I usually stay in the apartments in the westernmost tower at the end of the hall. It's practically on the edge of the cliff, so it's got quite a nice view."

He threw open a heavy wooden door, into a large suite of rooms that looked like the chambers of a medieval king, all huge wooden beams and massive, heavily carved furniture of dark Scotch oak. The sound of the ocean was audible here; and grew even louder when he went to the window and threw it open. Emily joined him there, and immediately felt another cool blast of sea air. She leaned out and looked down at a view that had to be at least three hundred feet straight down, down the side of the tower, down the cliffs, down to the rushing white water below. To the west, nothing but ocean, but to the north, there were more oak woods, what looked like a walled garden with some kind of white flowering trees, and the tip of what had to be another wing of the castle, the earliest one he had mentioned; an ancient leviathan of a structure built back when the world was lit only by fire and lightning.

Wow, she murmured.

She glanced sidelong at her host – it was now so obvious that he had been raised here. The castle was austere and remote and brooding in exactly the same way he was, with its medieval forest and stark stone monoliths out in the water, and the unquiet seas all around.

"This is your bedroom?" she asked, surveying the massive carved four-poster bed against the west wall, big enough to hold the lord and lady of the manor and a whole pack of fawning wolfhounds.

"Yes. There are three master bedroom suites on this floor, but this one is mine," Severus said, leaning back against the windowsill, his eyes following her as she took in the room.

"Well then." Emily flopped down on the bed and made herself comfortable. "This looks lovely."

"If you would prefer a room to yourself, feel free to choose either of the others," he said politely. "I've asked the elves to ready them both for guests."

She propped herself up on her elbows and smiled at him. "Could I sleep with you for awhile? Would you mind?"

He regarded her with his most pleasant smirk. "Not in the least."

At that moment, an unfamiliar sound began to make itself heard over the crash of the waves outside – a high, warbling melody of some sort, as though a trained opera singer strolling along the beach below had spontaneously begun a pastoral aria in some mysterious foreign language, warbling long, drawn-out high notes that were growing in volume –

"What on Earth is that?" Emily asked, sitting up and turning toward the open window in astonishment – more voices were joining the singing, until it swelled in a magnificent, ethereal mosaic of far-off voices. "Does the London Opera practice on the beach now and then?"

Severus chuckled to himself, turning back toward the window. "No, it's just the Selkies – they're rather like the Wizarding version of seals. A whole colony of them summer on the beaches around here every year, and for some reason they spend part of their time singing. I've always rather liked it."

"I can see why. It's glorious."

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Honestly, Severus was starting to wonder if there was anything about this isolated old pile that she didn't think was absolutely tremendous. She had started by marvelling at the view of the beach, staring about her with a wonder to match that of her absurd house-elf; but he had known every stone of this beach since he was a boy, and had never brought a lover here before. He had been looking at her.

Then he brought her up to Snape Hall, and she continued to act like the silliest creature he'd ever seen, oohing and aahing over the masonry like she'd never seen carved stone before. His eyes lingered on her face, waiting for the arch little sniff, the back-handed compliment, the look of bemused disdain as she lingered on the dust and cobwebs that inevitably proliferated in a castle the size of four or five Muggle churches and which only had a staff of three elves to clean it – but nothing of the sort happened. No, she was spouting architecture terms and talking about Muggle cathedrals, her hands clasped before her, looking like an excited little girl who had wandered into some aching romance... and the maddest, most ridiculous thing about the whole ridiculous performance was that it seemed absolutely sincere. He examined her words for some Faeryish dialectical of hidden meaning, but she seemed to be talking in a lot of short, declarative sentences since they had arrived – I think it's absolutely beautiful, this is magnificent, it's glorious – not a lot of conditional modifiers there.

Well. It looked like she really did like the place as much as she said. And now she liked his bed, too – Could I sleep with you for awhile? Would you mind? What an utterly ridiculous question. Next thing she would be asking, Darling? Perhaps you'd like to continue breathing in and out, would that be all right? Or, might I suggest that you drink some water next time you become thirsty? Sweet Merlin's beard – YES, silly woman, of course he wanted her to sleep with him. He hadn't felt like this since he was about eighteen years old and the sound of his lover's voice overheard in a distant room was enough to make him tremble.

Then she gave him that melting look, and held out her hand – an unmistakable gesture of Please, darling, come to me. And with the woman he had wanted for so very long lying on his bed in such an attitude of seductive invitation, looking at him like that – she didn't have to ask him twice.

He joined her on the bed, sank into her arms and buried his lips in hers, still amazed that she wanted this, wanted him, seemed to think of this trip home with him as a delightful holiday, and now seemed to be in love with everything about his dilapidated pile of a home from the instant she saw it. He thought about what he should do now to impress upon her what an excellent host he was; perhaps he should ask her if she would like to have tea, should Floo her ladies' maid to unpack her trunk, should ask to hang up her cloak. How uncouth was it to bring a woman home, make a brief introduction to the house-elves, take her upstairs and then to bed immediately upon arrival – but now, with her kissing him like this, he couldn't imagine wanting to do anything else. And from the way her arms went round his neck when he joined her in bed, and the rate at which her breath was labouring, she didn't seem to mind.

He knew he was far too eager for this, wanted her too much and thought he was hiding it badly; but having been so long deprived of this sort of intimacy, he could now scarcely get enough of it. But here, in his ancestral home, with the hard-won lover he had brought up into this splendid, intimate isolation, some of the authority of the lord of the manor returned to him, something of the lustiness of the wizard earls of Orkney from whom he was descended. Unlike Davie o' Kirkwaa, the last of the venerable Snape family seemed totally unwilling to be parted from the Faery woman he had brought home.

"I remember that look," he said, willing his hand not to quaver as his fingertips traced the line of her cheek. "I decided a long time ago I was going to call it your 'Puck surveys a sleeping Athenian youth' expression."

"Did you now," she sighed, loosening his tie – and then began unbuttoning his shirt.

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By the Mother, this was like something out of one of the fearsomely randy dreams that had plagued her all through oestrus – Severus entwined around her in a tower bedroom in some remote, dreamingly lovely castle... oh, this wasn't reality, it was one of Morgaine's or Eithne's epic romances. Her lover had come to bed and kissed her, and then looked up long enough to close the door and the thick velvet window draperies with a lazy gesture of his hand and an inaudible word, and what felt like an instant later he was lowering her onto linen sheets worn to velvet softness under her bare skin.

Once he was in possession of her, he wanted to take a long time, to have her at his leisure, and all she wanted now was to let him. No sound, other than the sea and ethereal voices singing their enigmatic songs all around the castle, the rustle of sheets, kisses and gasping and laboured breath, both baritone and soprano. She was far away from anything and everyone she knew, all worries fallen away. It never occurred to her to feel anything other than completely unselfconscious about lying under him and thoroughly enjoying him, just rocking in that primordial dreamsea of long-denied lust being consummated.

She had discovered another kind of kiss in his repertoire; along with those spontaneous, randy, teenage sort of kisses, the brief, arrogant, tantalising ones... when he was making love to her, he was capable of long, slow, impossibly narcotic kisses that left her dizzy, unsure of how she was ever going to get her lips off his again. His cock was working her slowly, relentlessly, but his tongue was almost unendurably soft.

It went on, and on, and on – nothing to worry about, no agendas to hide, no fear, no guilt about desiring a man she loathed – nothing but slow, unhurried pleasure, adoration for a man she trusted... who she loved. The warm weight of his body lying over her was frighteningly new yet familiar, as was the sweetness of his kisses and caresses, the – oh please yes harder more – feel of him moving deep inside her. He was larger than any man she had been with previously, but she couldn't have imagined being more ready – there was no pain, only a sensation of being gorged, deliciously filled. She raised her thighs slightly, to receive him more fully.

If she lived for an entire Age, she would never quite fathom the acuity of her response to this man, the sheer intensity of arousal and release; it all occurred so naturally with him. Her deep inner muscles sealed down on him, tighter and tighter, her clit heated and stiffened as he ground against it – until she had wrapped herself around him with strength she didn't know she had, and every stroke seemed to be pushing her closer and closer to falling, but she couldn't have stopped. A moment later, her head fell back on the pillow with a raw cry that she herself never heard, blindly surging against him.

Afterward, when she was lying shivering and breathless beside him in bed, he lowered his lips to her ear with a dark little laugh. "By the way, welcome to Snape Hall. I suppose I should have asked you if you wanted tea or asked to hang up your cloak about an hour ago, so please do forgive my inexcusable boorishness."

She just laughed, her arms tightening around him – how odd was that, to have a marvellous round of lovemaking with someone that made laughter well up out of you afterward. "Quite all right, darling."

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Their first night together was like opening Pandora's box – once the lid was opened, it could not be closed; once they started, they couldn't stop. For the first few days at Snape Hall, they barely got out of bed.

Those delightful, unutterably sensuous first days with one's new lover occupied all of their attention, as both were entirely given over to that time in which all the mysteries of life can be found in the way someone else shivers under your kisses, your caresses. Those moments, in which you discover the exquisite sensitivity of the flesh of her inner thigh, or that nibbling his neck makes his whole body react, seem as profound as the discovery of new worlds. Both members of this particular couple were no strangers to the pursuit of knowledge, and now they both turned their formidable gifts to discovering ways to conjure ecstasy in the other. He loves being touched like this, being kissed there sends her into raptures, he really enjoys being lightly bitten when in a certain primal sort of mood, this is the rhythm and stroke that invariably brings her to breathless climax. He adored kissing and being kissed, could do it for hours; and he had never made love in a certain way before, but is very much intrigued by it... would she like to... ? Of course, darling, come here.

The feel of her in his arms, the scent of his agonised lust all over her skin, the soft, anguished gasps in his ear as they made love, time passing unheeded, awareness of days into the next only by the changing patterns of faint sunlight on the bedroom walls. Occasionally, one of them would run a shower, and they would scrub each other off and make love against the edge of the claw-foot bathtub, the water raining down on them. Emily noticed that his left forearm looked entirely unblemished – apparently he had used an unobtrusive bit of Obscurantis there, and she noted that without comment.

Three times a day covered trays of very old and much-used silver would appear on the table by the window, laden with hearty, robust meals, as the house-elves seemingly tried to outdo themselves with feeding the couple within – but food was just something he consumed so he could keep his strength up for more sex. He was still wholly intoxicated with the indescribable luxury of just having her with him, so willingly and happily. She couldn't have imagined anything more exquisite than seeing him lying in her arms, looking at her with that faint, shy smile instead of bristling every time his eyes met hers.

As had happened in the callbox, and in every other time they made love since, the unabashed way she responded to him was indescribably erotic. When he had kissed her for the first time, she had responded so enthusiastically that his own long-ignored impulses had kicked in with a vengeance – and that just kept happening now. For some unfathomable reason she ignited helplessly at the slightest encouragement from him, watery knees and shivering in the pit of her stomach – until their mutual provocation and response built into an impossible feedback loop, her arousal feeding his, and his responses amplifying hers, until it crested in that single instant of shattering bliss. Even after their lusts were temporarily sated, there was the pure mammalian pleasure of being held, just lying in his arms, the primacy of her skin on his – he wanted to soak up that closeness and intimacy with every pore.

By the Lady of all the Worlds, how had she ever managed to keep her hands off him for this long...

And not only was she his every sexual fantasy of that year made flesh, but she was just such fun to talk to, pert little minx that she was...

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"So tell me... we've been going through so many athletic ups and downs in bed lately I've forgotten to ask which is your favourite one of them," Severus said by way of conversational opening sallies one morning, after long hot showers and breakfast in bed.

After perhaps three minutes of watching Severus scowl and yank at his hair after bathing, Emily had taken the comb from him and deftly untangled his hair in the back – his hair was blacker than raven's wings, and he had enough of it for two people. Breakfast was simple, just fresh berries with clotted cream, lemon tea, wheat toast with butter and jam; but somehow, sharing it with him amidst those tangled sheets while wrapped in one of her grandfather's old bespoke satin dressing gowns, it was the best breakfast Emily had ever tasted.

"What's my favourite... I have to admit, I never get tired of what's called female superior position," she replied, batting her eyelashes at him, and smearing strawberry preserves on a slice of toast.

"Ah. Why does that not surprise me in the slightest." She had to hand it to him, when paired with a seductive little smile, that old sinister eyebrow was downright sexy.

"And how about you, what's your favourite position, then?" she asked.

He thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "One in which I'm participating."

"Ah. You just like everything, then." She noticed his teacup was almost empty, and refilled it for him.

"Thank you. And yes, I have yet to take you in a way I didn't find eminently satisfactory. If the novelty of any of this ever wears off, I'll tell you."

"How lucky those students were that you were the one to give the Sex Ed lecture last year. Now having had a personal demonstration of your expertise on the subject, I am really most impressed."

Severus laughed softly. "I wasn't at all happy about having to be the one to give it, so I might have been a bit more caustic than usual that afternoon. Yes, I know, you've heard how appalling it was, you told me."

"Well... to be honest, when I heard that bit about the doorbell analogy, my first reaction wasn't exactly that it was... appalling."

"Oh? What did you think of it, then?"

"Come off it, dear – 'It's lots of fun, and I'm not going to demonstrate it,' followed by the analogy about the doorbell? Did you specifically choose words calculated to make every female student wiggle in her chair imagining what this tall dark velvety-voiced man could do to her personal doorbell?"

"I most certainly did nothing of the sort," he said, with mild indignation.

"All right, Mr. Youngest and Best-Looking Male Professor on Staff – "

"Given that my only competitors for such a prize are Flitwick, Hagrid, and Albus, that's really not too great an honour – "

"Know what you are? You're a ruddy great tease, Professor Snape. It's not only teenage boys who are subject to sudden flashes of randiness, you know."

"I'm a 'ruddy great tease', am I? So you thought the doorbell analogy sounded... interesting, then?" he asked, leaning on one elbow with an infuriating smile.

"I never claimed to be any more immune to such blatant provocation than a wiggling teenage girl, thanks," she said, turning away from him in an elaborate huff.

"The truth, young lady," he intoned warningly, draping himself over her from behind.

"Fine – hearing that made me quite sorry that I wasn't ever going to get a demonstration."

Then on your back, wench, came the tender growl in her ear. He leaned down and imprinted a long kiss on the space of downy bellyflesh just under her breasts.

"Oh please, sir, Mr. Professor, sir... " and she sank back onto the pillows.

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Oh yes, this was good.

He kissed his way down her quivering belly, drawing it out for a few heartbeats, savouring her eagerness... parted her legs and put an openmouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh. There, aroused and pink and ready, the female sex, waiting for him. The trembling thighs and long-coveted quim of his impossible ice maiden, now his to spread like strawberry jam on hot toast. He delicately threaded his fingers through the damp pink folds. Not velvet, no, more hallucinatorily brilliant than that. As full of sinuous rills and petals as the interior of an oyster.

Oh gods, yes. He dreamed of this as often as he had dreamed of feeling his cock slide deep into a woman's body. Lazily, he licked at the pinkness, tongued the softness of the interior lips, lapped at the mouth of the vaginal opening. He felt aflame with covetousness, sliding the tip of his tongue inside her and delicately flickering it just inside the opening. His lover moaned lustily, throwing her fair head back on the pillow.

It was lots of fun. Really. He had no elderly hard-of-hearing relatives with doorbells, but he had a powerful imagination.

Yes, the clitoris. Clitoris... .he enjoyed the classical-Greek sinuousness of the very word on his tongue. Could there be anything more delicious and intimate than having his lover's pleasure centres so up close, so accessible... he parted the inner lips with his fingers, found the tumescent little peak rising beneath them, and slowly outlined it with his tongue, which drew an aching soprano cry out of her. Lifting the little fleshy hood, he lightly flickered his tongue against it, discovering its shape, its contours, its rounded head and tiny cleft shaft. The reactions this provoked from her were delicious; she was gasping and yowling and writhing like a trapped cat, impossibly hot and wet – Not feeling so icy now, my love, are we – but he was a patient man, and knew how to take his time.

Still softly drawing on her with his tongue, he slid two fingers deep inside her, gently delving... he wanted to make her come, come hard, and he wanted to taste it and feel it when she did.

He didn't have long to wait. Her silken interior muscles clamped down on his fingers with surprising strength – and he moaned softly, urging the orgasm out of her with the urgent pressure of his tongue. Her nails were curling against the sheet, her hips nearly jerking off the bed. Her vaginal muscles squeezed down rhythmically on his hand – again, and again, againagainagain... until she subsided, jerking away from him, unable to take so much sensation, her body shuddering convulsively.

Orgasmic aftershocks – he loved it. He loved her for wanting him like this, for responding to him like this.

"Gods, you're fantastic," she purred afterward, lying sweating and boneless beside him. "I can't even move."

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"And you call me a tease, Miss Knocking on My Door At Half-Past Midnight in That Appalling Wisp of a Frock – to then ask for a potion," he said, sometime later.

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, when she was capable of rational speech again.

"Well – when you decided to show up at my quarters the evening we went to the hospital, for about one second there, I was thinking that perhaps you were there for something other than to get a potion made to help an ailing countrywoman of yours. Yes, I know she desperately needed it and there was no one else you could turn to, and in retrospect I'm quite pleased to have done it. Though at the time I was very bloody annoyed with you for not adhering to the scenario in my head."

"And how would I have done that?" She sat up, listening, unembarrassed as a chipmunk.

"You see, my dear, in order to properly fulfill it, you should have knocked on my door at half-midnight in that appalling wisp of a frock, then pressed yourself very enticingly against me, and said, 'Oh, Severus, I've been such a fool, you are absolutely the only one for me. Now you really must show me the error of my ways through a wide range of acts of desperate passion.'"

"Should I write that speech down for next time the opportunity arises?"

"Now she wises up," he muttered darkly, but kissed her anyway.

"I can put that dress on and go knock on the door, if you want to act that scenario out," she said, nuzzling his ear.

"Perhaps later. Right now, I'd prefer if you stayed right here."

Emily chuckled. I'll show you an act of desperate passion... lie back...

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He felt her breath, then a line of soft kisses tracing their way downward and then...

oh yes...

Forget limitless power over all one surveyed, there was nothing, nothing that felt better than the caress of a woman's mouth on one's cock. He threw his head back onto the pillow with a heartfelt moan, the sheets bunching between his fingers.

He could still scarcely believe that there were women out there who did this sort of thing to men not because they wanted something from them, but because they liked it... what wonderful creatures such women were... how lucky he was to have one of them in bed with him. The velvet warmth and liquid pressure of tongue, the exquisite rhythm and friction of lips was like no other sensation on Earth... he realised he had forgotten to breathe for awhile, and gasped.

Miracle of miracles, she didn't seem in any hurry to stop, either... there came the softest little moan of enjoyment from somewhere in the darkness, a sound that raised every hair on the back of his neck, that found its way into everything within him that craved sensuality and could not get enough of it. And she was prolonging this, drawing it out until his breath was laboured and his entire body felt wracked with suspense...

My dear... er... He put his hand down and lightly nudged her shoulder, a half-hearted warning that if she kept up with those kind of... oh please yes... .ministrations, she would swiftly bring this act to a rather explosive conclusion, and he wasn't sure whether that was her intention... but she didn't stop. No, she only quickened her pace... and then –

that shameless, gloating little moan again –

he whiteknuckled the sheet between his fingers –

and then –

somehow he turned yesyesmoreharderpleasemyloveYES into one word –

Afterward, some time went by before he could remember who and where he was.

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"Do you have any idea how good you are in bed?" Emily gathered him into her arms with a long, rapturous sigh. "I mean, has anyone ever given you the slightest indication of how extremely, superlatively, hyperbolically gifted you are in matters carnal? You ought to write how-to books on the subject. Really, love, the less talented could benefit from your expertise. No, really – I am quite serious."

"It seemed rather like I didn't do much of anything that time but lie back and receive, my dear."

She sighed rapturously again. "But you did it so well."

That marked the first time she ever made Severus collapse on her shoulder laughing.