Cauldron

Deepest gratitude to JK Rowling for these wonderful characters.

Deepest gratitude to my fabulous beta, Leigh-Anne, who urged me to post this chapter even though lemons start here and finish in the next. If that bothers you, blame her. (Well, and wait until both chapters are posted to read this one.) Thank you! I hope this warning is sufficient....

31. CAULDRON

She repeated numbly, frozen and unable to move, even had he lowered his hands from her face, which he had not, "I'm the cauldron?"

His fingers stroked her temples.

Alarm skittered through her and she stepped back, breaking the connection. "What do you mean?"

His voice was hypnotic as he drew her to him again. He leaned into her body and whispered near her ear, "Miss Granger, tonight you are the cauldron..."

He allowed his breath to tantalize the surface of her skin. "And the potion..."

He drew her closer, still. "And the flame."

She could refuse him nothing, nothing, but how could she give him something she didn't even have? She felt her regret in the tightness of her throat, felt her bitterness in the tightness in her heart, felt her anger in the trembling of her body.

"Come..." he spoke softly, his voice a ripple of velvet.

He took her hand by the fingertips and led her from the laboratory, and she found herself allowing it, despite her strong desire to throw up shields and dare him to break them down.

They stopped at his potions cabinet. "I think we'd best begin with these, lest we forget."

He pulled out three vials. He thumbed the cork out of one and held it to her lips.

She jerked her head away and stared at him from the corners of her eyes. "What is it?"

He cocked his head. "Miss Granger, I don't believe you've questioned any potion I've ever given you. I assure you it's not a poison." His eyes never leaving hers, he tilted it to his own lips and drained it.

She watched his tongue draw in what remained from his lower lip, watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched his black, black eyes as they watched her.

"It's my taste potion," he said. "I thought you rather liked it." He offered her an identical vial.

Hands trembling, she managed to open and drink it, this time avoiding his gaze altogether.

When she'd returned the vial, he presented a second, which he held to her nose as he watched her intently.

She sniffed it, recognized it as the contraception potion, closed her eyes and drained it.

"Miss Granger..."

She forced herself to meet his gaze.

"What did you think it was?"

"A lust potion."

"Why?"

"Some misguided attempt to show me what I've been missing," she snapped.

He watched her thoughtfully. "Have you had one before?"

She whisked by him quickly, avoiding that intense gaze, unsure of her ability to lie or bluff.

As she drew near the bed and her usual nest of pillows, she felt a clutch of awareness in her stomach. She veered away from the bed and took the hard-backed chair. And glared at him. "There are some things that are none of your concern."

"Indeed?"

She glared harder.

"Well, despite the fact that lust potions were nowhere on the agenda, I find myself suffering from an insatiable curiosity. And as a Potions master, I am doubly intrigued. Surely you won't leave me in this state of... anticipation?" He didn't approach her this time. This time, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and waited.

She looked up at him, at the way his hair swept down across one eye and cheekbone and still he managed to focus on her with an intensity that left her breathless.

"We were having a little party... the Gryffindor sixth-year girls," she added firmly, "and drinking butterbeer. Lavender thought it would be amusing to slip something into mine as a joke."

"How did it affect you?"

She stifled a small shudder of discomfort. "Not as it was intended, evidently." She shot him a quick glance then stared at her hands again, suddenly feeling surer of herself. If nothing else convinced him to drop this idea, surely the failed potion would. "It just made me itch. Inside. All over." And then, lest he misunderstand, she added, "Not in that way. Not in any pleasant way. Just in a horrible 'nothing can make this awful feeling go away' way. In fact, it was so awful..." So awful that she'd begun to sob uncontrollably and the restless itch grew into pain and Ginny had wanted to go to Professor McGonagall, and only Hermione's near-hysterical reaction to that suggestion had saved her the disgrace. "I took a Dreamless Sleep potion and when I awoke, it had worn off."

She waited for him to laugh at her.

He didn't.

The silence was most difficult.

She finally found herself sneaking another glance upward, and the way he studied her, eyes narrowed, almost made her itch inside again.

He finally drew in a deep breath, and then let it out. It sounded almost pained.

And still he studied her, and she could almost sense his mind working as he pondered her like she was a bloody potion he was trying to solve.

When she couldn't stand any more silence, she demanded, "What is it now?"

He shifted, seemed to pull himself out of a reverie, and said, "You told me not to do magic in front of your servants."

Well. That was certainly unexpected. "Of course not. They have no idea."

"But some of them have been there since you were a child."

She nodded, puzzled.

"They've been Obliviated?" When she could only gape at him in confusion, he demanded, "How old were you when your magic first manifested?"

"Manifested?"

"When you first performed magic, or it happened around you?"

What a silly question. "After I got my letter about Hogwarts, and we shopped in Diagon Alley."

"Impossible," he snapped. "Only a Squib wouldn't manifest at all by the age of eleven."

"I can assure you, I did not manifest, and to the best of my knowledge, I am not a Squib." As he simply watched her, scowling, she elaborated. "After we bought my first-year books and brought them home, I practiced some of the simple spells. I was greatly relieved to see that they worked, as I was very afraid it was all a big mistake."

At that, he dropped into his leather chair across from her. He slouched, his legs so long that his knees almost met hers. Again, he watched from beneath his curtain of hair. "I find it odd that a young witch with your power wasn't manifesting wildly."

"I wasn't," she said, although now that he mentioned it, it was a little surprising. "Perhaps I was waiting for permission."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Children don't have enough control to wait for permission."

"I was a remarkable child. Everyone said so." She tried not to look too smug, but really. Facts were facts, weren't they?

He snorted.

She sniffed.

"Your books...at your home, I mean. Jane Austen?"

Another left turn, away from the subject at hand. What was he getting at? She shifted in her chair. "No daughter of Winchester Cathedral can escape Jane Austen, I assure you."

"You like Jane Austen?"

"I adored Jane Austen. After all, she's Jane Austen."

"No fairy tales, though. No lust-filled bodice rippers."

She stiffened. "I was ten years old the last time I added any books to that collection."

"Oh, so you do have some here, then. In your trunk, perhaps?"

She felt herself colour to the roots of her hair. "Don't be absurd. I don't have time for fiction at all, and if I did, it wouldn't be silly love stories." She rubbed her arms. It was suddenly chilly in the dungeons, even more so than usual.

"Which explains the science books?"

"I might not have been manifesting magic, but I had my first Bunsen burner at the age of seven."

"Which might have been a substitute," he pondered, "but the potential for mishap was astronomical."

"I had no mishaps," she replied crisply.

"I'm sure you didn't," he responded silkily, and it was almost but not quite a sneer.

Which made her almost but not quite want to flounce into the bathroom and lock the door.

"And what about the comparative religion?" he probed.

"What about it?" She was running out of patience.

"I'll admit, I am simply intrigued by the thought of you, ten years old..."

"I was eight when I started reading on that subject."

"Of course you were." His eyes rolled.

He made that sound like an insult.

"Odd, combined with science, don't you think?"

She shifted uncomfortably. Looked at the ceiling. At her hands. Anywhere but at him. "I suppose I always knew something was going on inside me, something that made me different. I decided that maybe it was God."

"And so you read about God." He snorted with what sounded like laughter.

She glared at him again. "I was trying to figure it out."

"And what did you figure out?"

"My mother didn't know what to do with me. She is not exactly spiritual. She took me to the Dean of the cathedral and told him to answer my questions. Needless to say, he had neither the time nor the inclination to take on a precocious..."

Another snort.

"...eight-year-old girl, so he turned me over to Father Gadbury, who loaded me up with books and answered my questions and took an interest in me in general."

Professor Snape grew very still.

"He taught me about comparative religion...he's very knowledgeable, you know...and then when it was clear my interests truly were more in the Anglican direction, we focused on Anglican theology and history. When I was ten years old I took confirmation classes...those were fascinating! I was younger than the others by several years, so my classes were private. Plus, I assume my questions were more than the typical class would tolerate, and I asked for extra reading, of course."

"Of course." But his voice was strained.

She looked at him, waiting for more laughter.

None came.

But he looked very... tense.

"Miss Granger," he finally said softly, "did he...has anyone ever... forced their attentions on you?"

Oh good god, what now? "No," she said firmly.

"Behaved inappropriately," he pushed. "Made you feel uncomfortable or scared you or..."

"No!" The word burst from her. "Surely you don't think Father Gadbury..."

But clearly, he did.

She jumped to her feet. How dare he?

He joined her, then, and she found herself opening her eyes to him, opening her soul to him. "Go ahead," she said. "Look."

For a moment, it seemed like he would.

Then he put his hand over her eyes. "Don't do that," he said.

"Don't do what?"

"You've got to stop offering yourself to me that way. You've got to stop..."

"Trusting you?"

"Miss Granger," he ground out, "in the past two weeks you have alternated between exploding with unbelievable powers and appearing ready to self-destruct. I don't know whether to protect you or protect myself from you. But I do know that this tendency to let me wander through your memories at will is not natural, and it has to stop! Sometimes, you simply have to talk to me."

"But you'll believe me if you see for yourself." She looked up at him in entreaty. "And I love your eyes...."

Colour flushed his cheeks. Had she embarrassed him? He looked away from her. Yes, she had definitely embarrassed him.

"Professor, no one has harmed me. I simply never had any interest or desire of that kind."

And then, because it was true, and because she suddenly felt hollow that perhaps...oh god she'd never thought of this...perhaps she had presented herself to him as half a wife, as someone inadequate and lacking and...

She fought down the panic, and returned to what she knew so very strongly in her heart. "It's not your fault; it's nothing you've done or haven't done. Why does it matter? Why do you care?" She whirled away from him, her fists clenched. "I do have a desire to be with you and to be held by you and touched by you and..." she broke off short of, to please you. "I desire you so very much, and I want to do the things a woman does to a man because I want to do them." She looked back over her shoulder at him, pleading. "To you."

"Then you understand," he said softly, his fingers twining into her hair, "my desire to be with you and to be held by you and touched by you and...to do the things a man does to a woman because I want to do them.

"To you."

She closed her eyes, caught somewhere between desire and despair.

"Miss Granger, if you don't stop twisting your fingers, I swear we're going to have to visit Madam Pomfrey to get them untangled." His voice grew silky, again. "I have one more question for you. I promise, it's the last one."

She allowed him to turn her back to face him and looked up at him cautiously.

His eyes...they were glittering with something that seemed to be amusement.

"What do flying, Divination and orgasms have in common?"

XX

She stared up at him in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

He fought the urge to laugh.

"Miss Granger, might I point out that flying, Divination and...shall we say, sexual gratification?...have at least three things in common.

"One, they are very rare in that they do not come easily for you.

"Two, they can't be learned from reading books.

"Three, once determining those facts, you quickly determined none of the three to be worth your effort."

She pulled away from him, her hair a wild aura around her face. "That's...that's...that's so absurd, it's insulting! Divination is utter nonsense...and flying is, well, I don't know, it's clearly not nonsense, but it's certainly not important, not when weighed against the value of the other subjects taught here, and in fact, compared to Arithmancy or Potions, it's a total waste of time if you're not obsessed with Quidditch," she sputtered.

"So is History of Magic, at least taught the way it is at Hogwarts, but that didn't stop you from studying it."

"I believe you are a very cruel man!"

"I hope you didn't intend that to sting."

"Oh!" she huffed, and he believed he'd managed to silence Miss Granger, which felt very satisfying, indeed.

"And now, I believe we have a cauldron to prepare." He snagged her by the waist and pulled her to him, and finally allowed himself to capture those lips, those foolish, impertinent lips, with his.

And as he had her momentarily silenced and momentarily distracted, he used a bit of magic to remove her school robes and send them flying to the chair.

She sighed into his lips, pushed against his shoulders as if to protest, then sighed again.

He touched her fingertips and felt the unexplained tingle and reveled in it.

Again, he gave a silent command and felt her jumper vanish and found silky skin in its place. She molded against him, giving herself into the sensation, and then, a bit more magic and she was naked in his arms, gloriously naked, and he cupped her and held her against him and groaned when she slid down his body and...

Grabbed her wrists when she sought his cock.

And glared into her eyes when she looked up at him petulantly.

And yanked her back to her feet and kissed her again, before waving a hand to fill the tub with hot foamy water.

She struggled in his embrace, still frustrated at her aborted attempt to distract him. But his preparations got the best of her. He saw her sniffing, puzzling, and remained silent.

When he led her into the bathroom she didn't protest, but instead scooped some of the scented bathwater into her hand and took a closer sniff. "You changed it."

"Slightly."

She closed her eyes. "It still has mint. And eucalyptus. And..." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Citrus?"

"Five points to Gryffindor."

"Lemon."

"Ten points."

"You can't give me points."

"We'll have to think of something else, then, won't we?"

Belatedly, she seemed to recognize the incongruity of their situation. "You think I need a bath?"

"I think I want to fully prepare the cauldron."

She wanted in that tub. It was clear in the way she smoothed her damp hand down her thigh and eyed the steaming water.

But she resented like hell that it was his idea.

"I require privacy," she said primly.

"You will not get it," he responded firmly. "No Potions master would allow a cauldron to be seasoned..."

"I've heard enough of that nonsense," she snapped. "I'll bathe alone."

"I prefer to bathe you."

She gasped.

He lifted her into the air and stood her in the deep claw-footed tub.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice quivering, and now she suddenly found it necessary to cover her breasts...her lovely firm breasts...with one arm as her other reached to cover the apex of her thighs. "What are you trying to prove?"

Fuck. Of course, now he wished he could delve into her mind and see the source of her tension, and now he couldn't.

Her cheeks flamed and he realized she was embarrassed.

Miss Granger, who had held him at wandpoint and spread her legs and demanded that he perform the most intimate of healings...he fought against the memories of why such healing had been necessary, but then, wasn't that why he was caught up in this endeavor?...that very same Miss Granger was suddenly hiding herself from him?

"I'm not a child. And you are not my parent or my nurse and I refuse to be..."

He winced. The memory was as sharp to him as if he'd just seen it, his own reaction to his first sight of her nude body.

And now she stood before him, exposed.

"...to be bathed like one."

Merlin, she was going to be the death of him.

"No, you are not." He began unbuttoning his frock coat. "You are going to be bathed like a woman." And then, losing patience, he whisked his clothes away and settled his wand on the sink ledge and before she could stop him...

Stepped into the tub with her.

And knelt before her, aware of his own somewhat embarrassing erection, but ignoring same, and began the lovely task of sliding foamy hands up her thighs.

"I didn't mean for you to..."

"Miss Granger," he attempted to be conversational, but it was difficult, "we did not get off to the easiest of beginnings. I will admit...in fact, am proud of the fact...that I had never thought of you as anything but an infuriating student prior to our wedding night. And despite the fact that I'd been painfully aware of every minute that you and your friends..." His hands were now smoothing over her buttocks, and he fought to keep his voice steady. "...have been students in this school, I find that you were still in my mind as an impertinent thirteen-year-old. Perhaps, at best, a fourteen-year-old. Certainly not of age. Certainly not old enough to bed, much less take as a wife."

He pulled her down until she, too, was on her knees, facing him. Her eyes were wide and her lips moist and parted, but she was as skittish under his touch as a newborn unicorn foal, and considering that a unicorn would not be within touching distance of him, that was skittish, indeed. He carefully pushed her hair away from her face, tucked it behind her ears...not that it would stay there without springing back of its own free will...and with one hand cupping her face, he used the other to scoop the foamy, scented water over her shoulder and watched it run in rivulets down her body.

And watched her skin quiver in response.

And swallowed thickly, and fought to keep his response contained.

"And," he forced himself to continue, "I thought of you as a schoolgirl that night, and saw you as a schoolgirl that night, and..."

"I know the inadequacies of my body," she said.

He silenced her with a wet finger on her mouth. "No. I was blind. I was... I didn't realize, until..." Best not to mention her mother. Some sane part of him recognized that fact. "... that this body... " Again, he allowed his hands to spread the silky, foamy water over her. And again, he felt her tremble with the cold air, the heated water, and he hoped, the touch of his hands. He ran his hands down her firm thighs and kneaded them, and felt her sigh against his shoulders. "You do not have a schoolgirl's body, Miss Granger. It's a woman's body. A tight, lean body that will be lovely and elegant long after your friends are bemoaning theirs."

Again, some sane part of him knew not to continue in that vein, knew not to say that he'd preferred the more voluptuous womanly women's bodies until her. She had changed everything. This girl...this woman...this body...had changed everything.

He smoothed his hands up over her flat stomach and found her firm breasts, and her tight, hard nipples, and bit back a groan. "Merlin, your breasts..."

She flinched, as if to cover them, but he would not allow it.

He slid his palms over them, and then swept one hand behind her back to catch her when she sank against him, her head tossed back, her hair dangling into the water.

He caught it up in his hand, her wild and horrid and wonderful hair, and rescued it from its watery fate with a quick twist...

And she broke away from him...shoved him away...her eyes wild with anger.

And she snarled, "Don't touch my hair!"

And again, he didn't have to see into her memory to see what she remembered.

Fucking hell.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sank back into the water, and groaned. "I only wanted..."

"You wanted it to look like hers," she spat.

He stared at her, aghast. "Look like hers? Like...like Bella's?" As soon as the name escaped his lips, he knew his folly. He barely managed to grab her before she sprang from the water. "Bloody hell," he snarled back at her. "If you think I want any part of you...any fucking part of you...even a single hair on your head to look like hers...if you think I wanted any memory of her at all to invade this room...you must think I'm as insane as she is."

She struggled against him, gasping for air, and the slickness of her soft body struggling against him was nearly his undoing.

"I'll let your hair soak up every drop of water in this tub. I won't touch it again, if you'll stay," he gasped. "Just don't mention her again. Don't let her filthy name be spoken, and don't let her memory destroy..." He broke off, his words failing him.

"Destroy what?" She glared up at him like the warrior she was.

And he felt immensely weary. If not Bella's name or Bella's memory, what about all the other memories of his past? How many other things must remain unspoken and unremembered and denied for him to pretend to be something different from what he was?

What had he been thinking?

He looked at his hands and felt the shame that he had even dared touch her with them.

He felt the rage that he was in this situation at all.

And the guilt that his desire was stronger than his shame.

"Forgive me," he said, "for not being the man you should have married. But don't blame me for being the one you did. It was not I who chose you, as you recall."

He watched the emotions play across her face and when they turned to stupid, foolish guilt, he was selfish enough to sink back against the tub and pull her into the vee of his legs so that he could wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her horrid, awful hair and attempt to nuzzle her neck and fight for calm as her bum pressed against his erection until he could have howled with need....

She felt it, of course. Her body was tense with awareness. Yet she allowed him to touch her, to continue to wash her with foam.

Why did she allow it? Guilt? Obligation? He didn't want to know. He just wanted her there to touch, to hold.

And gradually she relaxed into him and let her hands rest on his thighs, and her neck arched, and then her body, as he slid his hands over her contours. He watched his long pale fingers drag scented foam over skin the colour of the palest shade of peach, skin flushed with the heat of the water and dare he hope, the heat of his touch.

And when he thought he'd go mad with the torment, when he thought he'd explode if he spent another moment in this divine torture...

She turned her face to his and moaned so softly it was more breath than voice.

He Summoned towels and emptied the tub with a wave of his hand, wrapped her in a cocoon of warmth and carried her to his bed.