Sinking

Where would we be without JK Rowling? Certainly not here with this fabulous world and these wonderful characters.

And where would this chapter be without GinnyW? Well, it wouldn't be here yet, and it certainly wouldn't be what it is. So thanks to Ginny for her fabulous beta-work!

41. SINKING

His Apparation was rough, with a crack that jolted through him as he collapsed onto the filthy carpet.

He should have waited, waited until his body had stopped shuddering, waited until the aftershocks had stopped tearing through him. But he felt too vulnerable, too fucking exposed, and had come to the only place he felt safe.

Another shudder rippled through his body, hitting every pleasure point and some he hadn't realized existed. His cock had spurted at first touch of wand to his forearm, and he was long spent, but still he felt more pleasure, and he heard the moan, the disgusting moan.

The ecstatic, disgusting moan.

His moan.

He ground his face into the carpet, and his eyes burned with grit, with...no, not tears, he wasn't crying, he fucking wasn't crying.

His vow to the Order had been punctuated by a slash of Dumbledore's razor-edged knife across his palm.

His vow to the Dark Lord had been sealed with a touch of his master's wand to his Dark Mark.

Pain and pleasure.

How different, those two bonds.

The other Death Eaters saw that jolt of ultimate pleasure as a promise of untold delights to come.

He saw it as a temptation to which he'd once succumbed and for which he now must suffer the consequences.

Including but not limited to the self-loathing, the disgust, that he'd ever seen evil and embraced it.

And worse, that he should ever have seen purity and embraced it with his loathsome flesh.

He took a slow, quaking breath of dust and grit.

Safe.

Unseen.

Unwitnessed.

In the dark.

In the filth.

Where he belonged.

XX

"Miss Granger."

Hermione jerked to attention, pulling her face from the window to blink up at the Headmaster.

"Madam Snape," she corrected automatically.

"Of course."

His voice was gentle. She didn't trust it.

"Madam Snape, if you'd allow me, I'll escort you to your quarters."

His hand gripped her elbow, and she felt herself pulled to her feet as if she weighed nothing.

"I'm waiting," she protested. "I'm watching for him."

He propelled her quickly down the corridor to the staircase, and her feet moved as if under her own volition. But this wasn't what she wanted. She jerked away from him and glared up at him. "No. Not until he's home safe."

The clear blue eyes that looked down at her held no twinkle, but instead, a depth of understanding that confused and frightened her.

"He's safe. He sent me a message. He won't be home tonight, however, and I would be remiss if I allowed you to spend the night in a cold corridor watching for something that isn't going to happen."

"What did they do to him?" she grated, her throat raw.

He placed his hand on top of her head, almost as if bestowing her with a blessing.

"I know it's difficult, but you must trust me. Trust Severus. He can't come home to you tonight. But he's safe. If he weren't, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you, of that you can be sure. And when he returns, if he finds that I haven't taken proper care of you, I will be the one who needs care. Madam Snape, you need your rest."

She allowed him to accompany her back to the dungeons, and then she entered their quarters where the air smelled of eucalyptus and spearmint and her professor.

Why didn't she feel that he was safe? Shouldn't she feel it in her bones if he were safe?

She removed her clothes and slipped between the cold, cold sheets on his side of the bed because to sleep on her own side would be to see the emptiness where he should be.

She buried her face in his pillow and tried to find comfort there.

She did not sleep.

XX

He didn't return.

She stayed in the bed and stared at the wall until it was time for her private Potions lesson. She pulled on the clothes she'd worn the day before, pulled her school robe over them, and entered his office.

It was empty.

She walked through to his storeroom where she'd be brewing if he showed up.

He had to show up. He never missed class. He was safe. He'd be at class.

She realized she was trying to convince herself when she saw her hands tremble as she put her book bag on the worktable.

She looked around. No book opened to a potion recipe awaited her. No cauldron awaited her. No assignment. No preparation.

Terror seized her.

BANG!

She jumped and then gasped with relief. How many times had she heard that same bang when he'd entered the Potions classroom with billowing robes and a door flung open to hit the stone wall with a resounding crash?

She heard his voice as he gave an assignment to the fourth-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. She fought to regain control of her breath and waited for him to come and give her an assignment of her own.

With a small pop, a book appeared on the worktable. She opened it to the page marked with a braided strip of green leather.

This was it? He was gone all night and showed up for class and didn't even bother to come see her?

She wasn't sure how long she stared blindly at the open book without comprehending a single word on the page.

She simply knew that after standing there for far too long feeling abandoned and...worse...foolish, she decided that perhaps she wouldn't be brewing a potion today, after all.

XX

A half hour into the class, he forced himself to make a circuit of the classroom and cast a quick glance into the storeroom as he passed, only to find it empty.

He stepped inside. She'd been there; he was certain of it.

He felt a sick sense of relief that she'd given him a reason for anger.

What did she think she was doing, skiving out on his assignment? Did she think that just because she didn't sit in his classroom, she could attend at her leisure?

He returned to his chair behind his desk, careful not to strike his left forearm.

He hadn't let anything press against it since Apparating to Spinner's End. He just wanted it to calm, to return to a source of pain, only pain, nothing but pain....

He'd spent too much time the night before kneeling before masters.

He made another circuit of the classroom with the appropriate snarls and insults.

He snapped the order for them to turn in their samples and clean their areas.

He stared blindly at the vials on his desk long after the last student was gone.

XX

She moved her quill fiercely across the parchment, watching inch after inch of notes appear. Somehow the words, the facts, materialized on the page as if she'd not actually processed them through her brain, which was preposterous. But her brain, hand and quill were so trained to take notes from Professor Binns' gray lectures, it seemed to require no other action on her part.

Leaving her with too much ability to think.

"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."

Oh, how she'd bristled and protested. She'd pointed out how ridiculously without scholarly merit the subjects of divination and flying were and felt quite justified in her defense.

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

The quill slowed to a stop. The flow of words suddenly seemed a waste of effort as Professor Binns droned on....

A spot of ink spread to a blot before she noticed and lifted her hand.

How easily he'd done that.

How easily he'd slipped beneath the surface and looked at her, truly looked at her, and...noticed.

It had left her feeling as if the earth had vanished from beneath her feet. He had split her open, and then, with the utmost of precision and delicacy, he had exposed something inside her that even she hadn't noticed before.

It had felt terrifying and horrifying and...

Safe.

She always felt so safe with him.

And even as he pointed out this flaw...this humiliating flaw of hers...he'd lifted her above it in such an expert and shuddering completion that it simply didn't matter any longer.

Because he'd noticed, and he'd proven to her that she was wrong, and the earth had fallen away from beneath her, but that had been his touch, his lips, his tongue...and of all things, a dry lecture from Professor Binns was bringing it all back to her, along with a desire to see another professor entirely. Her professor. Hers.

"Hermione!" A hand settled on her shoulder...not his hand, the wrong hand...and gave a little shake. "I never saw Binns put you to sleep before."

She looked up from her parchment, her mouth suffused with moisture. She swallowed hard and avoided Harry's eyes, feeling herself rudely lurched back to reality. "I...I didn't get enough sleep."

"If Snape's not at lunch today, you could sit with us. For, you know, old time's sake."

That brought her upright and her eyes snapped to his. "Why wouldn't he be at lunch? Did something happen?"

He stared at her, puzzled. "Of course not. I was just saying... " He shrugged. "Just a thought, that's all."

She hadn't eaten breakfast, and now it was time for lunch and the thought of food twisted her stomach. "I need to take care of some other things first, but maybe...."

She needed to go to the dungeons, to see him, to just reassure herself that he was there.

But he wasn't there.

And he wasn't in the Great Hall.

And she found she had no appetite, after all.

XX

The owl from Narcissa had found him in the staff room. He'd removed the pale green parchment, vanished the scent and taken it to his office to open.

Fuck.

Why did she want him to come for lunch?

What went on in her twisted mind today? Better to find out than leave something festering.

He didn't bother changing robes before leaving the school.

He arrived in the black marble Apparition Foyer and found it empty. No house-elf awaited him with directions. Unusual, but not unheard of.

"Severusss..."

He froze.

That voice.

He'd forgotten it, yet could never truly forget it.

The sibilant "sss" was new, an affectation apparently copied from the Dark Lord.

But the rich alto tone, the seductive curl, belonged to one woman.

"Bella..." he sighed softly.

"How good of Narcissa to send you my way," she purred, stepping forward from the shadows. "Or perhaps that was me, signing her name." Warm, soft fingers slid up his throat to his rigid jaw as she let out a delighted gurgle of laughter. "Enjoying your Mudblood, Sev? Does she make you feel seventeen again?"

"Really, Bella." He pulled away and out of her reach. "Where is your husband?"

"Oh, how I laughed when I heard." Her throaty laugh filled the room as if to demonstrate. "How predictable, another teenaged witch. I suppose taking a real woman never crossed your mind."

"What do you want?" he demanded harshly. "Clearly not me, so... what?" He uttered a soft, "Lumos." The sconces on the wall filled with the glow of candlelight.

And when he saw her, really saw her, he caught his breath.

He'd seen the photos of her in the Daily Prophet when she'd escaped Azkaban. Her time there had taken a cruel toll. But now her skin shimmered with a magically enhanced glow of health. Her hair gleamed; she'd left a few dramatic white streaks in it, he noted. Her black silk robes clung to curves he was certain she couldn't actually have, including a cleavage that begged for a man's face to bury itself there.

She was everything he might once have thought he'd want, but once she'd grown tired of him, he'd never been insane enough to want to return there.

And now he could only stare and analyze in wonder that she'd be vain enough to squander her energy this way.

She was expending quite a bit of magical energy just to maintain those glamours.

She must know her powers were going to be needed for the Dark Lord's war.

"You like what you see." It was a statement, not a question.

"Not particularly." He realized, unexpectedly, that he spoke the truth as he enjoyed the flicker of anger that showed itself briefly on those perfect features. "I wonder at the waste. Surely you've got better things to do with your magic," he drawled.

"That's where you're wrong." She preened, dragging one blood red fingernail up the hollow between her breasts. "I'm researching long-term glamours for our Lord. He's decided to put on a prettier face for his public, once that nasty little Potter brat is finished off."

One of the most intelligent decisions the Dark Lord had made in years, not that Severus would speak that thought aloud.

"Where are Lucius and Narcissa?"

"Still asleep. Last night took a lot out of them," she oozed with a silken smile, "although they certainly didn't complain."

"I'm sure." He allowed himself a hard sigh. "What do you want, Bella? I have a class to teach, and it appears I won't be getting any lunch."

She circled him slowly, and he swallowed down the acid that rose in his throat.

"Fucking the Mudblood must be good for you, Sevvy. Or, for your sake, let's hope it's simply that fucking is good for you. You'll be happy to know that our Lord has given me a very special assignment, one that he thinks I am particularly qualified to fulfill."

Fucking hell. What could she be qualified for that the Dark Lord would think had anything to do with him, other than... An image flashed before him, an image stolen from Miss Granger's memory, an image of the old photograph. What the fuck did the Dark Lord have in mind?

"You'll definitely be getting lunch today. You know the way to the small dining room. Everything will be clear once you're there."

"What, I'm not to be blessed with your further presence?"

She laughed. "No, I arranged the guest list. I have no desire to do more."

He moved into the manor to find what awaited him, relieved, at least, at that.

XX

"You're early," Madam Hooch said, looking up from a copy of Quidditch World.

Hermione entered her office and took her usual seat across the desk from the older witch. "I wasn't hungry."

Madam Hooch stared at her through narrowed eyes. "You look like fresh-squeezed shite."

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"You don't look happy enough to have been shagged into oblivion, so I'm assuming..."

Hermione stood up, knocking the chair over. "If you'll excuse me, I have real studying to do."

But the door slammed shut in front of her face.

"Sit down, girl. I'll keep my observations to myself, but you can't blame me for noticing. You and Severus are the most entertaining thing that has happened at Hogwarts in decades."

"Believe me, being entertaining is not my idea of a good time."

Madam Hooch let out a bark of laughter.

"Sit down. I've got a parchment for you to sign."

Hermione sighed and took her seat again. She saw a blank parchment on the desk and a quill and pot of ink beside it. "I don't sign blank parchments," she said.

"Smart girl. How did you end up in Gryffindor?" Madam Hooch flicked a finger, and the parchment slid closer to Hermione. "Then write anything you want."

Hermione frowned but reached for the quill.

"Without touching it," Madam Hooch added.

Hermione gaped at her. "You mean, write without holding the quill?"

"It's called wandless magic, Madam Snape. I suggest you wrap your mind around the concept and give it a try."

"Wingardium..."

"Silently," Madam Hooch added helpfully. "And that's the wrong spell. In fact, no spell needed. Just do it."

"Without a spell?"

"That's what I said, girl. Like you did when you were a child."

Hermione felt her cheeks burn, but didn't illuminate Madam Hooch on her lack of magical experience before Hogwarts. Instead she stared at the quill and tried to lift it with sheer force of will.

Nothing.

Madam Hooch leaned back in her chair and raised Quidditch World again. "Let me know when you manage to get it to do something," she said most unhelpfully.

XX

Snape entered the family dining room to find, of all people, Pendragon Parkinson. "Pen," he said and nodded without hiding his surprise. He took the chair opposite, and a bowl of consommé appeared before them.

"Severus," Pendragon replied.

Severus lifted his spoon and began eating. He didn't have time for games and wasn't going to exhibit even a modicum of curiosity at this awkward turn of events. And besides, the Malfoys always served excellent cuisine. If he didn't dawdle, he might get two courses before having to leave.

Pendragon tapped a perfectly manicured finger on the table, making Severus aware of his own calloused and potion-stained hands. Some Slytherins had to work for a living, he thought with a sneer.

"I'd rather be having this meeting elsewhere," Parkinson finally said in a low voice. "While the Malfoys, and of course Bella, know why I'm seeking this meeting, there are certain aspects of any arrangement we make that I'd rather not be made under the Malfoy roof."

"Arrangement?"

"Oh, yes, I have a proposition for you that I think you'll find most... enticing."

Severus raised his eyes and saw an unsettling gleam in his companion's eyes. He remained silent, but lowered his spoon and pushed the bowl aside.

"I'd like to offer Peri to you, as your bride."

He was well-schooled, but even he had difficulty keeping his face clear of emotion as he remarked softly, "I have a bride."

The other wizard scoffed. "For how long? A few more weeks? The marriage law won't be worth the parchment it's written on after Hallowe'en, and your Mudblood won't be in the picture."

"Indeed." His voice was even lower now, but Parkinson had never been an astute judge of risk and danger.

"Peri is a pretty little thing, Severus, if I do say so myself."

"Periwinkle is thirteen years old."

Parkinson gave a negligent shrug. "I can't see as that's a problem, seeing as you like them young."

Young. This is what they thought of him. Young... "You are offering your thirteen-year-old daughter to me to marry."

"She bleeds. She's old enough. Her mother assured me of that."

He lifted his goblet to his lips, but didn't drink, couldn't drink, couldn't do anything but fight to keep his rage in check. Finally, he managed words. Words that felt like they were ground from glass, but managed to sound almost civil. Almost. "Bella put you up to this?"

"The Dark Lord told us you'd be needing a pureblood bride and that Bella would be arranging things. I got to her first," Parkinson replied smugly. "Severus, your position with the Dark Lord is..." He broke off and cast as quick look around. "Well, it's like this, isn't it? You're to be his right hand. And to have a daughter married to you would be a benefit to any family. Such a benefit that..." Again, the quick glance around. "You can have Pansy, if you prefer."

No honor amongst Death Eaters, it seemed. But still, to drive the point home, he said, "She's promised to Draco when the marriage law falls."

Parkinson gave an ingratiating smile. "Things can change."

Severus drained the wine from his goblet, suddenly needing what little strength it gave him. He rose to his feet and stared down at the man as if he were the most disgusting filth he'd ever met, which at this moment, he certainly was. "Your suggestions offend me in more ways than I can elaborate, and I think if you value your life, you'll leave now."

Parkinson leaped up. "I say. There was nothing suggested except a proper betrothal and marriage. It's not as if I were going to send them to your bed for sport!"

A movement in the hallway outside the door indicated someone's presence. He wondered how much had been heard and hoped it would be every fucking word.

He'd let Lucius and Narcissa avenge the insult to their family...under their own roof, even.

He had to leave. To get out of this fucking place, away from these fucking people, these people who looked at him and saw a lecherous, child-fucking pervert...his throat clenched as he choked it down, choked it down...

He Apparated from the Foyer and landed unsteadily at the Apparation Point outside Hogwarts.

He barely made it away from the point and to a dying lilac hedge before he started retching.

XX

The quill hovered over the inkpot, dripping long drops of green ink. Focus unwavering, Hermione drew it toward the parchment and, again, attempted to mentally push it across the page. Even a single straight line would be an accomplishment after the spatters and splats she'd managed so far.

No straight line appeared. Instead, the quill scratched a tear into the surface and stuck, quivering.

"Fuck," she whispered, exhausted.

"Language," Madam Hooch replied, still reading.

Hermione glared across the desk, remembering how easily the words had poured from her quill in History of Magic when she hadn't even been trying. Of course, she'd actually been able to hold the quill in her hand, but the words had flowed, seemingly in through her ears and out through her fingertips without even hesitating long enough in her brain to register.

She closed her eyes and strained...no, that was wrong, she should be relaxed...and tried to recall Professor Binns' deathly dismal lecture. She thought of the sound of other quills scratching, of Ron snoring, or Parvati and Lavender whispering...

And one sound became real.

One quill. Scratching across parchment.

She fought the urge to open her eyes and, instead, just listened....

"The Goblin Wars?" Madam Hooch asked, amused.

Hermione felt a surge of energy and opened her eyes as the quill fell to the desk. Three and a half lines of green script...in her own handwriting...flowed smoothly across the page. She leaned forward to look, and yes, it was most definitely notes from Professor Binns' lecture.

"Well done, Madam Snape."

She grinned. Glanced at the quill and this time watched it lift gracefully, watched its sharp tip move quickly across the bottom of the parchment and watched her name appear. "It's not blank any more," she offered in way of explanation.

Madam Hooch opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small flask. "Care to celebrate?"

Hermione hedged, "Not on an empty stomach. But you go right ahead." Which was a waste of breath as Madam Hooch had taken a nip straight from the flask as soon as she heard the word, "not."

Hermione lifted a hand to sweep a strand of hair out of her eyes and saw it tremble.

"That's enough for today," Madam Hooch remarked, recapping her flask. "Can't drain you of your magic, can we?"

"That almost happened once before," Hermione said. "I hate to think I'm that fragile."

"I'd hardly use the word fragile to describe you."

Hermione stared at her hands, clutched in her lap. "Madam Hooch, may I ask you a question? Without offending you, I mean? I just can't help wondering...."

"Spit it out, girl."

"Well, you say you're unaligned. Does that mean you don't think the Order of the Phoenix is... well, that you think they're no different from Death Eaters?"

Madam Hooch's face smoothed over as if all emotion had been erased. "What house do you think I was sorted into?"

Hermione had never even considered the question before, but she knew as clearly as if she'd been told. "Slytherin."

"It's not easy to be a Slytherin, Hermione. It has taken every ounce of my considerable gift of cunning not to get swept up in these difficulties. Not to be forced to proclaim a loyalty to one side or the other. This doesn't mean I don't have opinions, but it does mean I won't be sharing them with you."

"Thank you for not taking offense." Hermione stood up, thinking the conclusions were pretty obvious. She taught at Hogwarts and Professor Snape trusted her. "Tomorrow, same time?"

Madam Hooch gave a nod and went back to her Quidditch news.

Hermione snatched up her splattered parchment to take with her.

She felt like framing it.

Her brief burst of jubilation faded, however, when she remembered.

She headed into the castle, her heart in her throat.

XX

The bed taunted him.

With its red sheets and its pile of pillows and its memories of gasps and sighs and...his gut twisted again, and he braced himself against another bout of nausea...the awakening of the sexual appetites of an innocent.

He took a long swallow of firewhisky straight from the bottle and waited for the burn to erase the sick.

He couldn't get drunk enough fast enough.

He lit another cigarette and drew in the smoke, holding it deep in his lungs before finally exhaling and sinking back in his chair, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

Since when had anyone had the power to flay him open with their opinions of his character?

Since when had shame been anything but a low thrum, constantly present but no longer noticed?

Since when had he fucking cared what anyone thought about him?

Since she'd happened to him.

Since she'd presented herself as some fucking virgin bride with the blithe assurance that he was just one more professor smitten by her intellect and willing to do whatever necessary to protect her. One of the protected Golden Trio, so confident that he would be a tame little pet who lived in the dungeons while she lived with her friends in Gryffindor Tower with only the occasional distasteful bit of coitus between them to satisfy the Ministry.

Which could have worked.

It would have worked had he not been so stung by the insult to his masculinity.

If she lived in Gryffindor Tower, the whispers wouldn't have started, would they? It would be clear that his participation was forced, that he wasn't getting any obscene pleasure from it. But no, he'd allowed that part of him that was a man...that part of him that was too long suppressed behind the role of despised teacher, hated traitor, secret spy...to speak up and say, "Like hell you will, little girl, like hell you will," and put her in her place...in his quarters, on his floor, and finally in his bed.

He hadn't realized he still had a soul until her presence started eating away at it, exposing tender spots that were raw to her touch, quivering in fear and pain and wanting to creep back into the darkness and hide....

He'd had so little dignity left.

Bedding a student had shredded it.

Lusting after her had pulverized it.

Developing an ache that only she could soothe had obliterated it.

There was little doubt as to what left him so vulnerable to Minerva's scorn and the werewolf's anger and Bella's taunts and Parkinson's assumptions.

It was the bloody truth that they were right.

He'd sunk as low as he possibly could.

And had even found comfort there.

Even now, could find comfort there...

He took another drag on his cigarette and let another swallow of alcohol burn its way to his stomach.

No, he couldn't get drunk enough fast enough to suit him.

XX

He didn't know how much time passed.

He knew he'd put a hefty dent in the contents of his bottle and that he'd lit two cigarettes without remembering that a third was resting, half smoked, in the ashtray.

He knew that she'd somehow managed to enter his chambers...his chambers...and was standing there glaring at him and had the gall to wave her hand in front of her face and cough.

"Professor Snape," she announced in her prim, pear-shaped tones. "Are you quite aware that you have a classroom full of students waiting for your lesson?"

"What business is that of yours?" Was that slurred voice really his? He tried to muster a bit of pride in the accomplishment. He hadn't managed to get this drunk in a decade or longer. Well done, Sevvy, Bella's voice cooed in his head. He took another drink to chase it away.

"Clearly, none." She whirled away from him, headed back to the door from whence she'd entered. She paused, her spine impossibly stiff and straight. "In the future," she said, facing away from him, "if you'd kindly inform me when you'll be away all night instead of sending the message through Professor Dumbledore? It's humiliating enough to have it happen without learning of it from him."

He reached for his bottle and knocked it over instead. He watched the smoking liquid spread across the tabletop, but couldn't stir himself to spell it away. "My deepest apologies, Madam Snape, for any humiliation I might have caused you," he sneered. As if she knew anything about humiliation.

"If I'd remembered what a naffing little swot you can be and how...how bloody efficient you can be at deflating a man's spirits..." he began, and then his head lolled against the back of the chair as he no longer had the ability to hold it upright. He fought to finish his thought. "I would've come home and let you knock me right out of my state of bliss instead of staying away where it could take its own sweet time passing."

She whipped back around. "State of bliss?"

Oh, that got her attention, did it? "The Dark Lord is a far more effective master when it comes to securing his servants' loyalties than Dumbledore," he said, his voice at its most silken, and forced his lips to curl into a smirk. "And a good time was had by all."

Her features were indistinct, blessedly blurred by the alcohol in his system. Blurred enough that he wasn't certain whether they were twisted with pain or with disgust as she stood frozen for the longest time....

At least, her image was frozen in his mind.

Because he'd closed his eyes.

And he wasn't really sure how much time had passed, how long she'd stood there, or indeed, whether she'd even replied.

He just knew that when he opened his eyes again she was gone.

It was later still, much later, before he sobered enough to realize that the reaction he'd seen, the expression that was now indelibly etched in his memory, wasn't that of a child or a girl or even a stupid teenaged student.

It was a woman's reaction, the stiff posture and clear tones and intense emotion radiating from her in waves.

Even realizing that, he wasn't sober enough to give it the consideration it deserved. It was an idea that rolled around the edges of his mind, just out of reach, as he stumbled to the bed and fell across it to sleep.

Not until he next stirred...his head pounding and mouth tasting of ash and liquor, his arms empty, and her warm body not within his reach...not until that moment did it enter his mind that he just might have driven Miss Granger away.