Drowning

Thanks go to JK Rowling, who graciously allows us to love her characters in ways she never intended.

Thanks go to my fabulous betas, Leigh-Anne and GinnyW.

38. DROWNING

The tea was in the brown betty, snug in her grandmother's tea cozy.

Dobby had popped in with sandwiches, per her urgent request. Professor Snape hadn't had dinner before he'd been summoned.

She paced in front of the fireplace, her mind whirling.

He'd clutched her to him.

He needed her.

He'd shoved her away.

He didn't want her.

She wasn't sure what to do...what he needed her to do. Hang back, leave him alone? How, dear God, could she tolerate not holding him, not reassuring herself that he was uninjured, that he was safe?

She'd seen his eyes. His words, "He never hurts me," were not reflected by the dull black depths of his eyes....

She'd know what to do when she saw him, she decided. She just had to hold back long enough to look at him, really look at him, and she'd know.

Whether he returned to her a Death Eater, or her professor. Hers.

She rearranged the teacups on the tray yet again.

At this rate, his tea would be cold.

Maybe she should start another kettle of water, be ready to dump this pot and start afresh.

That's what she'd do. She'd start a fresh pot. She wanted it to be perfect....

She dropped down on the edge of the bed. Their wonderful bed. Where everything always seemed to work out right between them. She picked up his pillow and hugged it to her, burying her face in his scent, and immediately felt calmer.

He'd told her he wasn't hurt. There was no reason for her to be so uneasy, so worried.

He was back and he was safe and...

She leaped to her feet, the pillow falling to the floor.

Something called her. Something urged her. Feeling rather foolish, she walked toward the stone wall and dropped the wards and watched as the stones ruffled aside...

And found him standing there. No, leaning, leaning against the opposite wall, his eyes empty and hollow, just staring at her.

For one frozen moment, she couldn't move.

And then...

"Liar!" she muttered under her breath and rushed to his side and grabbed his hand. "You said you weren't hurt..."

She dragged him back into their quarters, closed the wall behind them, and fluttered about him in a flurry of activity.

She broke off in frustration as she got a better look at him. His face was sickly pale; his fingers in her hands trembled. She reached to touch his cheek and felt it...cold as ice.

"You said he didn't hurt you!" she accused more loudly this time. "Just because there aren't any bruises..."

He shoved past her.

The door to the bathroom slammed shut and bounced back open.

She followed to find him retching on his knees, hanging his head over the toilet.

She snatched a clean flannel from a shelf on the wall and wet it at the sink, then knelt beside him, smoothing his hair back, pressing the flannel to his forehead as he hung over the bowl, shoulders quivering. Soothing nonsense sprang to her lips as she gathered his hair back at the nape of his neck and bathed his face in cool water.

He collapsed to the floor and fell back against the wall and glared into the distance, avoiding her eyes, and she knew he was attempting to gather the strength to snarl at her, to send her away.

"Stupid man!" she muttered and tucked a wet strand of hair behind his ear, the better to see his colour in the glow of candlelight. He jerked his head away and then winced.

A wave of her wand, and the tub began filling.

"Watch this," she commanded, and she saw his eyes flicker to her against his will. She held out her hand and closed it into a fist, as if she were scooping something into it. Smirking, she jerked her head at the pot of bath salts by the tub. A fistful of bath salts floated through the air impossibly, without losing a single grain, and then, when she opened her hand, dropped into the water with a burst of aromatic oils.

She slid him a sly look, quite pleased with herself. And seeing his eyebrows arch, if a bit weakly, she knew she'd distracted him, if only for a moment. "Not bad, eh?"

He closed his eyes without speaking, but she knew his face so well, his lips...oh, yes, his lips...that she recognized the slightest quirk at the corner for what it was: a weak smile drawn from him against his will.

It didn't take much wandwork to divest him of his clothing, and this time he mustered enough energy for a glare, but she ignored it. "Into the tub," she announced. "You need a good soak."

And when he attempted to pull away from her, she tugged him to the tub and placed her hands on his chest, ready to shove him in if he didn't step in.

He stepped.

And sank into the heat with a sensual groan. She cast a cushioning charm against the tub just as he sank back against it, and his eyes squeezed shut in agony. His body was tense, so tense...taut to the point where he seemed ready to snap with it.

"Oh, Professor...." she murmured, kneeling behind him and stroking his hair away from his face, massaging his temples...

His hands snapped up and closed around her fingers with the speed and power of a sprung trap.

"Ssssh," she soothed. "I won't do that again. It's all right." Finally he released them, and she dropped her hands to his shoulders.

A chill shivered through her body.

She sent the door closed with a wave of her hand, sealed the cracks from drafts with an insulating charm and...

After disposing of her own clothes with a quick whispered spell...

Stepped into the tub between his legs.

He jerked upright, but she knelt in front of him, pushing him gently back against the cushioned tub. "I know... the Ministry... we aren't going to do anything...." She leaned over him, bracing her hands on the sides of the deep tub, and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek and then, when his eyelids fluttered closed, another kiss on each one.

And then she saw moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes, and his throat flexed convulsively as he jerked away from her, turning his face to the side.

Oh, professor....

She fought the lump in her own throat, fought the urge to cling to him, and instead slid down his body until she was seated in the cradle of his thighs and draped herself against his chest. "I'm going to leave the water running," she said as matter-of-factly as she could manage, as if this were any normal bath on any normal day. "I like the way it feels when it's churning, and the hot water never runs out. Isn't that lovely?"

She reached behind her and dragged her fingers down the rough texture of his cheek to reassure herself, to reassure him. "You have the loveliest tub. You can't take a nap in the prefects tub. You'd float away...."

At the word "nap," his hands clenched the sides of the tub and he stiffened...

She hushed him again. "It's all right. If you tire of it, just wake me up."

She curled against him, her face nestled in the crook of his neck. She nestled her cheek against the heat of his skin as the steaming, scented water rose until it lapped gently at their shoulders, swirling deliciously around their legs, and she used her toes to remove the stopper from the tub so that it wouldn't overflow as it kept filling.

Then, when she'd despaired of ever feeling it--finally, finally, his arms closed around her, held her, and he leaned his head against hers.

Belatedly, she thought of her hair, wild and unruly and billowing around his face. She reached back with one hand to try and pull it away from him...

And he stopped her with a snarl. "Leave your horrid hair alone," he muttered, and she felt him bury his face in it, and she fought back a choked sob.

He was her professor.

Hers.

She mouthed the words silently, tasting the soft, gentle consonants on her lips. Mine... my professor. And now her own eyes threatened to leak tears, but she couldn't let them, not now, not when his breathing was slowing and his arms clung to her so....

His hand raised from her shoulder to her cheek... his long fingers skimming across her cheekbone and finally finding her eyelashes and the telltale salty tears that clung there.

He wiped it gently away.

His breathing slowed, and only when she felt and heard his gentle snore did she finally allow herself to drift with him into sleep.

XX

He woke up in bed.

Alone.

And confused.

He rolled over...

And saw her.

Wearing the white shirt.

Fretting with the teapot, stirring and pouring and fussing with a tray.

He relaxed without realizing he'd been tense.

The previous night's activities came back to him like blows, but it all seemed to fade away when he remembered her tenderness, her preposterous insistence on a shared bath, her weight on him as she curled and snuggled and the heat of the water as it eased away his pain....

And now, watching her unawares, he felt a clutch at his throat, a ridiculous but unruly thought that she was simply an angel, nothing short of that, an angel.

He must be fucking drunk.

She turned to him and her eyes hardened. She flounced to the bed and sat heavily on it.

"You're a horrible, miserable liar," she announced.

So much for angels of mercy.

She shoved a mug...a mug? He didn't rate her grandmother's china any more?...into his hands and ordered, "Drink this." Then she handed him a dish of biscuits. "Ginger snaps. Eat them. They'll settle your stomach."

Then jumped to her feet and flounced back to get her own tea.

Her agitation was palpable. She seemed to be in a snit though he couldn't imagine why. Unless... what had he done last night? Had he inadvertently revealed something...?

He found himself swallowing the scalding tea without tasting, unable to bring his eyes up to look at her.

"If she's to be killed, I must be the one to do it."

"Granted, my boy. I will make it clear. She will be safe from all but you."

If she had any idea, she wouldn't be in a snit. She'd be gone.

Something cold closed around his windpipe.

If she had the ability to leave.

If her vows allowed it.

His eyes were fixed on her fingers as she pressed more biscuits on him. What would she say if she knew? Would she understand? He reached and grabbed her hand, closed his fingers around hers, pressed his lips to the palm of her hand and felt a tremor go through both of them.

She sank against him, stroking his hair away from his face. "Let me..." she said. "Let me help you."

He jerked his head away. "Last night... I didn't deserve your comfort." He turned his face to hers, carefully cool. "Nor do I deserve it this morning."

He moved to rise, and she stepped back, a gentle frown knitting her brows.

He was almost in the bathroom when her voice caught him.

"Brush your teeth. Your breath smells like vomit."

He winced.

Definitely in a snit.

When he'd finished his ablutions...he even gargled...he opened the bathroom door to find her perched on the side of the bed, watching for him. Her eyes flickered down his naked body, lingered, and jerked back up. He followed her gaze and found himself half-tumescent.

Well, more than half, now that he'd caught her looking and was thinking about...

He bit back a snarl and headed for his wardrobe.

"Professor... "

Her voice was soft, and right behind him. He turned and found her standing, nibbling her lower lip in that way that made him want to nibble it for her. He closed his eyes. "Miss Granger..."

"First of all," she said, taking him by the hand and leading him back to the bed, "I don't know what happened last night, and I don't need to know. It's enough to know that it distressed you. And when you come home distressed, you will receive comfort."

He snatched his hand away from her. "If you had any fucking idea the things I said...the things I..."

"Oh, please, Professor," she snapped back at him, her strange energy bristling between them. "You're a spy. You have to say things."

He stopped short. That tight, cold fist that made it so difficult to swallow loosened, and he felt almost like he was choking on a sob. He wasn't, of course. But... it felt far too close to a sob for his comfort. He couldn't tear his eyes away from hers, and finally he saw, really saw them.

Glossy and dilated... the pulse at her throat jerked, and her eyes flickered down again, and she caught her breath.

Merlin's beard, he smelled her arousal.

He responded to it.

He opened his mouth, but she gave a sharp, jerky shake of her head. "No. I understand. The Ministry. But..." Her cheeks flushed. "I've been working on ways to...to trick them. Or, shield ourselves from them. And..."

"Miss Granger," he drawled, straining for normalcy. "Always the rule-breaker. And what have you come up with?"

She flushed. "I don't think I've found what I'm looking for yet. But I had something...an experiment for you to try."

"For me to try?"

"For...both of us."

This time, when she pulled him back to the bed, he allowed it.

How could he not?

She climbed in and slid over and held open the covers, waiting for him. "What do you..."

She shushed him with her fingertips on his lips and then leaned closer and...

Kissed him.

This was hardly new, but it was still magic.

Merlin, these kisses...somewhere, constellations were born because of these kisses. Showering, shimmering stanzas of stars pouring out like music from their lips, from their fingertips, from their souls.

He rolled over her, found himself grinding against her thigh...whatever she had in mind, he'd already abandoned. She was here, and she was his, and fuck it all if he wasn't going to lie with his own wife.

She pulled back, and when he dove after her, tried to recapture her mouth, she stopped him with a gentle hand on her cheek and opened her eyes to him. It was several confused, breathless moments before he recognized her action for what it was, an offering of her mind. He shook his head, frustrated. "I told you, you can't just..."

"I want you to look," she whispered. "Let me show you."

Her lips were parted and swollen and moist, and he wanted to do nothing more than reclaim them, but something in her voice reached beyond that desire and beckoned him. Bracing her face between the palms of his hands, he looked into her eyes and saw...

Blackness.

Only blackness.

She'd blocked him? That's what she wanted him to see?

No, not blackness. There was a soft glow of light spilling across...something. Gentle movement. He couldn't focus, couldn't see it, just dim shapes in dim light.

Then he heard the voice. "I said, eyes closed. Feel it, Miss Granger. We are brewing together, and I can't continue unless I know what the potion needs."

His voice. And it all snapped into place, the memory she offered him.

He started to pull away in confusion, but her voice found him. "Don't go... " It was a soft murmur at the edge of his consciousness. "Stay with me... come deeper."

He tensed, resisting, and felt soft fingertips at his temples. "Deeper..."

There was no such thing as "deeper" in Legilimency. One observed; one didn't participate. And he was about to tell her just that when...

He felt himself slip into the darkness, into the cold, and with a shocked gasp, he realized he wasn't just observing any more...

He felt.

He felt it.

He felt hot fingers close gently, stroking soft flesh that was dimpled with the dungeon cold. Moist lips on the soft skin of his...her...abdomen. Felt the soft vibration when the voice...his voice...repeated, "Describe the potion.... What does it feel like?"

Part of him was alert, confused, demanding...what was happening? This couldn't be happening. This had never happened before.

And part of him sank deeper still until sensations overtook thought.

"It tingles."

It did. He felt them, the tingles, the thousands of tiny bubbles popping on the surface of his skin, deep in his abdomen, and deeper still, "Like champagne," she said, awed. And he caught his breath and experienced the awe with her. "Down there," her voice whispered. Oh, yes, Merlin, yes...Merlin, Merlin, Merlin...down there.

And down there was strange and exotic...hot and melting and simmering, yet tightening into a throbbing centre and then...

He almost came off the bed but arms had him...her...pinned down. And fuck! Wet heat stroked across skin...a tongue, his tongue, it was as if his memories assaulted him from all directions as he felt his mouth flood with the memory of the taste of her skin, even as each stroke stoked him to higher heat.

And the voice, the questions, the never-ceasing questions when he wanted, he needed to sink deeper, and deeper still, to a place where he didn't have to think or hear but could simply feel....

Bloody fucking hell...a finger slid across turgid flesh, that button of flesh, and it was all he could do not to cry out at the touch...

"Don't stop."

--of his tongue.

His tongue.

Followed by quivering.

Quivering sensation.

"Sweet..."

"Treacle..."

Gods, yes, slow, warm flowing treacle, and –

"Miss Granger, what's wrong?"

Gasping, flaying, fighting...

"Nox."

Dark.

Nobody can see me.

"I'm...I'm going to..."

Yes, yes, yes, he was going to...

"I'm going to shatter," she sobbed.

Shatter. On the brink of...something...shatter, yes, shattering...

"I'll catch you."

And then, hands pressing against quivering flesh, trembling flesh, quaking flesh...as the tongue found its mark...

His memory flooded with the taste of tea and his present, his here, his now--

Never...never had he felt anything like this.

This sweet convulsion that rippled and quaked from a hot, hard core and melted outward, clenching and jerking and shivering...

Oh, Merlin...

Until he couldn't bear it, he would die if it didn't stop...

And it ended.

And he would have felt lost, forlorn, except...

He felt the slow, hot throb of aftershocks....

And lips, gentle lips...

Down there.

And suddenly, his eyes were closed, and he was gasping for air, choking on gulps of air, fighting for air...as was the body under him.

Under him.

She was under him, gasping with him...

He fought back to awareness, raised himself on trembling arms, looked at her...

And saw her head flung back as she choked on laughter...absurd, smug laughter. She caught his face again, pulled his lips down to hers, and as they joined, he felt the hot, sticky evidence of what had happened, what he had done, what he had spilled between them.

He broke away, guilty, stunned that he'd come like a schoolboy. And what about her? Surely she hadn't..."Was that...did you..."

"Yes!" She was practically crowing, the little minx. Merlin, that wasn't Legilimency; he'd never even heard of this happening before!

The impertinent little over-achieving minx!

He reached between them, still not quite believing, and found her wet and swollen and at his touch...

She purred.

She fucking purred.

And buried her face in his neck as she gently pulled his hand away. "No, don't...too soon," she choked, and he could only roll onto his back and pull her on top of him. He slid his hand under her shirt and stroked her back as they both fought for air, for control, for a return to sanity.

"The Ministry of Magic can bite my ruddy arse."

Finally, he gathered the energy to growl, "And did somebody actually tell you that the wizarding world needed a new magical art?"

She giggled into his shoulder.

He despised giggling.

He wanted her to do it again.

He pulled her to him, then wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Hell, he'd absorb her straight into his skin if he could. She climbed his body until her face was even with his and then bent closer still....

"Professor..."

Her soft voice vibrating against his ear was pure seduction.

"Miss Granger..." That was all he could get out, the only words he could speak, and even they were more groan than speech. But she shuddered in his arms as her lips pressed against his neck, and she trailed soft kisses across his shoulder, and all he could do was cling to her, inhale her, caress her.

Because only by drowning himself in her could he forget what lay in wait for them at Halloween.