Chapter 27: ... Is Equal To ...

As promised, here's the other half of those 12,000 words I wrote over the weekend. Look for chapter-the-last to post on Halloween, or thereabouts. This chapter has been alpha-read by Sshg316, beta-read by Deemichelle and Annie Talbot, and Brit-picked by MagicAlly.

(Psst ... lemons are ahead!)

Chapter 27: ... Is Equal To ...

Hermione stirred into wakefulness, reaching for her love. He had been there—she had smelled him—felt him! Her eyes opened upon the dimly lit little hospital room. Turning on her side, aching for him in her very core, she saw the statuette was gone. He had been here, in her room, and he had not so much as spoken to her; he had only collected his grandmother’s property and departed.

Desolate, she stared at the wall until sleep claimed her again.

Severus was roused from his fitful slumber in the wingchair by the irritating repetition of his name.

‘Snape—Snape—SNAPE!’

‘Fuck off,’ he snarled, even as his eyes opened to the sight of Shacklebolt’s head in his fire.

‘In the interview room, Snape,’ Shacklebolt barked. ‘Five minutes, or I’ll send someone to collect you.’

With a rude gesture as his only answer to the Auror’s request, Severus staggered into his bathroom and began to splash cold water upon his face. He knew very well that the only way to keep himself from seeking out Hermione would be to occupy himself with pressing business … helping Magical Law Enforcement to make their legal cases against the Death Eaters would be just the thing.

Hermione woke up with sunlight flooding the room.

‘Good morning, Miss,’ Scampy said brightly, producing a tray of food. ‘Madam Pomfrey says Miss can have real food today.’

The smell of eggs and toast made her mouth water, and her stomach rumbled loudly in approval. ‘Thanks, Scampy,’ she said, finding it much easier to sit up than she had done the day before. ‘I’m feeling better.’

The house-elf allowed her to feed herself, which Hermione did for several minutes, savouring the taste of the food. When the worst of her hunger was assuaged, she turned her eyes upon Scampy, who was laying out another fresh nightdress.

‘So, how was Master Severus when you saw him last night?’ she inquired.

Scampy dropped Hermione’s hairbrush and it clattered upon the floor. ‘Scampy did not say Master Severus was here last night, Miss!’ she said nervously.

‘He came to my room, he laid his hand on my face and he left—and he took the statue of Merlin and Nimüe with him!’ Hermione said, holding Scampy’s gaze.

Scampy did not answer her, but anxiously twisted the tail of her tea towel in her long-fingered hands.

‘Please tell me, Scampy—why didn’t he stay?’

Scampy’s eyes darted from one side to the other in a rather shifty manner, then she stepped very close to Hermione and spoke in a whisper. ‘Master Severus did not tell Scampy why he did not stay, Miss.’ Then, she did a rather odd thing—she reached inside her tea towel and produced Hermione’s note from him. ‘Scampy put this away so Master Severus could not take it back,’ she confided.

Hermione let her fork drop with a clatter and snatched the note, holding it to her chest as if it were a favourite teddy. ‘Thank you!’ she said, her spirits lifting dramatically. ‘Help me dress, Scampy—I have things to do!’

The door opened and Madam Pomfrey entered the room. ‘Sitting up and eating solid food—you’re ever so much better today!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Another day of your potions and bed rest and you’ll be as good as new!’

‘No!’ Hermione cried. ‘Please, I can’t stay here for another day! I have things to do—important things!’

Madam Pomfrey’s expression became very serious. ‘If I must, Hermione, I’ll put you under the Restraining Spell to compel you to obey me, but if you’ll behave, there is no reason why you cannot talk with visitors or read books whilst you rest today.’ She withdrew her wand and raised her eyebrows. ‘What shall it be?’

Hermione’s face fell; she most wanted to get dressed and go to find Severus, but she certainly did not want to encounter the Restraining Spell again. ‘I’ll stay in bed,’ she said.

‘I’ll have your witch’s word on it, if you please,’ the matron said.

‘Yes ma’am,’ she said glumly, ‘but how much longer? Do you think I might be well enough to go after lunch?’

The matron picked up the first of Hermione’s potions from the bedside table and passed it to her. ‘We’ll see,’ she said noncommittally, watching like a hawk as her patient swallowed the brew. ‘We’ll just have to see.’

Never had a day dragged so. It was true that her friends from the DA came by in groups, but Madam Pomfrey’s rule of fifteen-minute visits persisted, so no one stayed for very long. In between visits, Hermione read and re-read her note from Severus, studying the familiar handwriting as if she were translating an assignment for Ancient Runes; what he said was clear enough, certainly—but what did he mean?

In the quiet moments, she still found herself drifting into sleep, though her naptimes were becoming shorter and shorter. Time was creeping along, yes—but she was getting stronger, and soon she would be well enough to do as she wished.

Severus entered his quarters wearily and pushed the door closed. After another entire day spent in the company of the Aurors whose job it was to mop up the end of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, Severus wanted nothing more than a liberal glass of Firewhisky and to sleep. He had no further worry that he might go after the girl in a fit of drunken mawkishness; she was no longer his concern. Every time she had crossed his mind all day, he had recited this fact to himself: The girl is no longer my problem. That repetition had undoubtedly done the trick. He was a man of intelligence with great powers of self-discipline; he had only to grasp the complexities of a situation with his logical mind to be able to act rationally.

‘The girl is no longer my problem,’ he informed the crystal decanter before pouring a glass of smoking liquor.

Scampy left the room with the remains of Hermione’s dinner tray, passing Madam Pomfrey on the way in.

‘Please, ma’am,’ Hermione began immediately. ‘I feel perfectly fine—please let me go.’

Madam Pomfrey looked at her critically and cast a series of diagnostic spells before standing back at last with her arms crossed over her chest. ‘If you can stand up and dress yourself without falling on your face, I’ll release you,’ she said.

Hermione threw the bedclothes aside and stood on the cold floor in her bare feet, surreptitiously steadying herself with a hand on the bedstead. ‘I can do it!’ she said fiercely, squatting to retrieve her bag from beneath the bed.

Madam Pomfrey did not answer, but sat down to watch her efforts.

Hermione had not failed to use her time of confinement wisely; she had discovered from Professor Vector that Professor Snape had spent the day again closeted with the Ministry officials in a large conference room on the ground floor. She went first to this room, but found it empty of everyone save the house-elves who were tidying up the mass of teacups and litter of sandwich and biscuit crumbs littering the tabletops.

Undaunted, she hitched her bag further on her shoulder and marched up seven flights of stairs to the headmaster’s office, where she used the information she had extracted from Professor Flitwick on his visit to her sickbed: ‘Pepper Imps!’ she said to the gargoyle guarding the stairway.

The headmaster bade her enter when she knocked upon the stout wooden door, and she did so rather energetically.

‘Sir,’ she said impetuously, forgetting to greet the old man, ‘might I borrow your Pensieve for a little while? I’ll take great care of it, I promise you.’

‘Hermione!’ Dumbledore said, rising to his feet and smiling at her bouncy manner. ‘I’m so very glad to see you up and about.’

Hermione smiled at him. ‘Thank you!’ she said. ‘I’m fine now.’

Dumbledore turned to the cabinet behind his desk and opened it, bending to retrieve the Pensieve from its place. Hermione watched with great attention as the headmaster lifted silvery strands of memory from the Pensieve and replaced them one by one with a touch of his wand to his temple.

That task complete, the headmaster conjured a large purple canvas bag, embroidered all over in colourful thread with symbols such as those etched about the lip of the great stone Pensieve. He then fitted the Pensieve into the bag and held out the bag straps to Hermione.

‘I don’t like to shrink it, for fear of impairing its magical capacity,’ he told her, ‘but I have placed a Weightlessness Charm on it to make it easier to carry.’

Hermione thanked him again and took the bag, which felt as if it were empty, although she could clearly see the outline of the great stone Pensieve bulging through purple canvas.

‘Hermione,’ the headmaster said tentatively, ‘may I ask what your plans are, now that the Eternus Perturbatio Curse has been lifted?’

Hermione blinked. ‘My plans?’ she repeated stupidly. What was the headmaster talking about?

‘I hope you won’t think me tactless for speaking of it,’ Dumbledore said, ‘but I know you will want to make the transition as easy as possible for everyone involved.’

Hermione felt an unfamiliar thump of anger towards the old man. ‘Headmaster, who, in your opinion, is involved in my curse?’ she said, forcing herself to sound polite.

‘Very few people,’ Dumbledore assured her gravely. ‘I put a great deal of effort in making sure of that. Only I, Professor Snape, and you were involved in the situation; I later informed Professor McGonagall.’

‘And for which of us do you anticipate an uneasy transition?’ Hermione inquired tightly, feeling the tide of anger swelling in her breast, making it difficult to breathe easily.

‘Only for you and Professor Snape, I would think,’ Dumbledore admitted.

Hermione’s chin lifted, a sign which Harry and Ron—or Severus, for that matter—would have recognised as a warning; the headmaster, however, did not know her well enough to judge its significance. She demanded tersely, ‘Do you really believe it is your business, sir, how Professor Snape and I make this transition?’

Dumbledore frowned and spread his hands as if his words were self-evident. ‘Hermione, you are an intelligent young witch. Surely it cannot have escaped your notice that your professor has grown inappropriately fond of you?’

‘Inappropriate?’ she whispered, appalled by his word choice.

‘Certainly,’ he replied strongly. ‘I have reminded him of the promise he made when this began, to let you go once the curse was over. It is only fair for you to let him go, as well, my dear.’

Hermione stared across the desk at the wizard she had revered since she was eleven years old. She had sometimes questioned his good judgment in permitting Harry the amount of license he had done through their early years at school, but she had never doubted his ultimate wisdom in all matters. When she spoke to him, it was in clipped, precise tones.

‘Let me make myself perfectly clear, Professor Dumbledore,’ she said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud to her in the silence of the room. ‘I am in love with Severus Snape, and I am convinced that he is in love with me. I don’t care what sort of promise you may have extracted from him about me without my knowledge or consent, but I promise you this: If you attempt to interfere between us now, I will make you sincerely regret it.’

Unable to look at the startled old man for one moment longer, Hermione turned from him and strode to his office door. ‘And sir,’ she added as she passed through the doorway, ‘if you doubt my abilities to do so, I suggest you speak to Rita Skeeter or Dolores Umbridge.’

Hermione skipped down the revolving staircase and set out with hurried steps for the dungeons, the temerity of her actions reverberating through her; she did not hear Albus Dumbledore as he murmured, ‘Merlin help poor Severus.’

Severus was sitting in his customary leather wingchair and drinking his second tumbler of Firewhisky when the wooden door of his chambers opened with such violence that he started and slopped drink on his shirtfront. Hermione Granger, looking rather pink-cheeked and healthy for someone as impaired as she was reputed to be, entered his sitting room and kicked the door closed behind her.

Clearly, he had been remiss in not changing the password to his quarters.

He did not bother to stand in greeting; she was, after all, no longer his problem. ‘Lost, Miss Granger?’ he snarled.

‘Hiding, Professor Snape?’ she riposted crisply, her brown eyes blazing.

He sneered, determined not to demonstrate to her how her loveliness rattled him. She was not his and never had been. He had no more right to think of her as he did than he had to think of any student in that manner.

‘Do me the courtesy of collecting your possessions and removing them from my rooms,’ he said, rising, his tone cold and remote. ‘I do not want you or any of your belongings here when I return.’

Turning from her, he passed out of the sitting room into his private brewing room and closed the door behind him. He leant heavily upon the nearby work surface, his eyes closed, his fingers curling around to grasp the edge of the table. His heart pounded in his chest, and the drink he had imbibed muddled his mind muzzily.

‘The girl is no longer my problem,’ he muttered experimentally, but neither the relief nor the assurance he had felt when saying the words earlier in the day came to him; he simply felt sick with a desperate need to walk back through the door and enfold her in his arms.

It seemed a very long time had passed before the door opened and the girl entered, wearing the garish green satin dressing gown he had allowed her to wear the very first night she had been in his rooms; he closed his eyes against the sight, struggling not to remember how naked she was beneath the garment.

‘Don’t,’ he croaked, abandoning all pretence of strength and determination.

‘You don’t,’ she replied, her tone implying loving exasperation.

He opened his eyes again, and she reached to peel his fingers from the tabletop. ‘Come with me,’ she said quietly. ‘I have something to show you.’

He suppressed a groan as he permitted her to tug him back into the sitting room. He had hoped to blast her out of the dungeon with icy indifference, but it appeared he was going to be forced to reason with her, instead.

Merlin help him.

‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’ she asked, nudging him to sit upon the sofa and then seating herself beside him.

‘I’ve been busy,’ he muttered.

‘Why?’ she persisted.

He sighed and expelled air noisily. ‘There is no point in prolonging the inevitable,’ he said flatly. ‘The Dark Lord is gone, the curse is ended—you have no further need of my services.’

‘Severus,’ she breathed, and he was forced to turn his face and to look at her. ‘You know I love you,’ she went on inexorably, her eyes boring into his, ‘and I know you love me. What are you talking about?’

‘The curse,’ he replied wearily. ‘The Dark Lord is dead, the curse is ended, and so is our association. It’s not so hard to comprehend,’ he added, trying for his usual nastiness, but to his own ears, he sounded merely grouchy.

She reached into the pocket of the over-large dressing gown and withdrew the thrice-cursed note he had penned to her just days before. How could he have been such a fool?

‘You love me,’ she reiterated fluttering the parchment at him.

‘I thought I was going to die,’ he snapped. ‘A man says things when he’s going to die that he wouldn’t otherwise say.’

She bridled. ‘Are you saying that I’m worth dying for but not worth living for?’ she demanded dangerously.

Her challenge rankled him. ‘I’m not supposed to be here!’ he shouted, standing and rounding on her. ‘I was supposed to die making sure Potter had his chance at the Dark Lord—it has been my only priority these last seventeen years!’

The girl sat forward, her eyes strangely intent. ‘Do you mean to say that you have lived these last years believing you would die when Voldemort did?’

Severus shrugged, turning from the intensity of her eyes. ‘It was not an issue until the Dark Lord returned, but from that time, yes: It was understood that I would spy for the Order until such time as my usefulness was at an end.’

She surged to her feet, tugging at his sleeve until he turned back to face her. ‘You mean until Voldemort killed you for betraying him!’ she cried.

The mixture of hot indignation and compassion in her demeanour very nearly unmanned him; he jerked his sleeve from her fingers and stepped away from her, his ugliest sneer upon his face. ‘I do not expect a silly little girl to understand such matters,’ he said scathingly.

She glared up into his face, her breath coming in angry pants. ‘Are you saying that you wrote this note—’ she fluttered the damn thing at him again ‘because you thought you’d never see me again?’

He bared his crooked yellow teeth at her in the parody of a smile. ‘Precisely,’ he grated.

As he watched her, she slowly cocked her head to one side, and a smile stole over her lips. ‘Just stop,’ she said softly.

He opened his mouth to annihilate her, but she turned from him and went to stand beside the coffee table, where the headmaster’s Pensieve rested.

She drew herself up to stand straight and looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I am in love with you, Severus,’ she said clearly. ‘You’ve been in my mind; you know it’s true.’ She lifted the incriminating note and held it up. ‘You are in love with me; I know it’s true. All we have to do is decide how we’re going to proceed, now that the war is at an end, and we’re free to make plans.’

He looked at her, with her unfortunate hair and her generally unremarkable features, and knew she was not a beautiful woman, yet she was the loveliest creature on earth in his eyes. The effort to send her away as he had promised to do was the most difficult thing he had ever attempted. He would rather have stood against the Dark Lord ten more times than try to convince Hermione Granger that he did not want her.

Drawing a ragged breath, he spoke in his most reasonable tones. ‘The curse brought us into unnaturally intimate association with one another,’ he said. ‘It is only natural that you should believe yourself attached to me, under such circumstances, but you’ll see, Hermione—the longer we are apart, the more the feelings will fade, until they are only a distant memory to you.’ Dear Merlin, he hoped that would be true.

She extended a hand to him. ‘I have something to share with you,’ she said. ‘Will you view a memory with me, please?’

He frowned, ignoring her hand. ‘I cannot see the point,’ he said firmly. ‘It will be best if you will take your things and go.’

‘This is really important to me—please.’

Moments ticked past; at last, he sighed and stepped over to stand beside her. ‘Very well,’ he said wearily. ‘What memory are we viewing?’

‘This is the night of my abduction,’ she replied. ‘Come along.’

She grasped his hand, and he felt the contact like an electric current travelling up his arm, flooding his nervous system with a riot of impulses—but then, they were bending to touch their faces to the surface of memory and tumbling into a dark November night.

They stood just beneath the canopy of branches at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, watching Hermione walking toward Hagrid’s hut.

‘Is that the Mudblood?’ a coarse voice inquired, and Severus turned to see the Lestrange brothers beside Antonin Dolohov.

‘It is,’ Dolohov said. ‘Take her, quickly!’

Rodolphus Lestrange cast a Full Body-Bind and the girl fell headlong.

‘I thought you didn’t remember the night of your abduction,’ Severus said, looking down at her.

‘Voldemort modified my memory,’ she said. ‘When I woke up in the Hospital Wing, after he died, I remembered what had happened—his Memory Charm ended.’

The Forbidden Forest blurred around them and slowly resolved into the Malfoy dining room; the girl was being revived by Wormtail. She opened her eyes and cried out in fear to find herself surrounded by a coterie of cloaked and masked Death Eaters.

A cold high voice pierced the room, silencing all but Hermione, who continued to sob in fear. ‘What have you brought to Lord Voldemort, Antonin?’ the Dark Lord asked, walking into the room with Bellatrix clinging to his arm.

Severus shuddered to see his late Master alive again, and the girl turned her attention from her memory and wrapped her arms about his waist, pressing her cheek to his upper arm. ‘It’s horrible to see him again, but he is dead,’ she murmured to him. ‘You and Harry killed him—he’s gone, Severus.’

He struggled to free his arm, where it was trapped between her body and his; she loosened her grip on him so he could move, and he wrapped the arm about her, pulling her against him, reciprocating her warm embrace.

‘I bring Potter’s Mudblood, My Lord,’ Dolohov said, bowing deeply.

The Dark Lord turned his eerie red eyes on his old school friend. ‘I believe I asked for Dumbledore,’ he said icily.

Dolohov flushed a nasty brick colour. ‘My Lord, we have had no opportunity to even come close to Dumbledore! But we were able to Apparate to the outer edges of the Forbidden Forest and make our way through the forest, over the school boundary, as far as the gamekeeper’s house.’

The Dark Lord waved the Death Eaters back and walked in a broad circle around the sobbing girl. ‘How am I to use this Mudblood to punish Dumbledore?’ he demanded waspishly, his displeasure causing the Death Eaters to draw even farther from him. ‘Can none of you complete a task properly?’

Bellatrix Lestrange, dressed in a diaphanous black negligee with an obscenely low décolletage, glided to the Dark Lord and stood upon her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. Her crimson, dagger-like fingernails slid suggestively down the front of his robes, openly caressing him, unmindful of the sickened faces of the room’s occupants. His Lordship’s frightening laugh echoed amongst his followers.

‘Have I not always said you were born to be Lady Voldemort?’ the Dark Lord purred, lazily flicking one of Bella’s nipples, clearly visible through the transparent garment she wore.

‘My Lord!’ Bellatrix cried, her eyes wild with need.

‘Soon,’ he promised, flicking the other nipple. ‘For now, clear the room for me.’

Bellatrix turned like a virago on the Death Eaters cowering against the walls. ‘Did you not hear Our Lord?’ she demanded shrewishly. ‘Clear out! Give us the room!’

In a swirl of black cloaks, the Dark Lord’s followers gladly left, and Bellatrix fell to her knees, nuzzling her Lord’s genital area. ‘May I, My Lord?’ she begged.

‘What you may do, Bellatrix, is put the Mudblood into an enchanted sleep and then curse her. It wouldn’t do for her to see Lord Voldemort after she is cursed, would it?’ The Dark Lord smiled his cruel, lipless smile at the dark-haired witch.

Bellatrix lunged to her feet and drew her wand. ‘I would kill her first!’ she cried.

‘You will obey me,’ the Dark Lord told her mercilessly. ‘If I desire you to curse ten witches and bring them to me for imprinting, you will do so—will you not, Bella?’

A tortured sob was wrenched from Bellatrix. ‘Yes, my Lord!’ she agreed pathetically.

‘Then do as I bid you, Bella; I have an owl to send to Dumbledore.’ The Dark Lord turned and swept out of the room, leaving Bellatrix alone with Hermione.

The Death Eater turned to the sobbing girl and with a mighty sweep of her wand, she said, ‘Quiesco!’

The room blurred and in the next moment, Severus stood again upon the sitting room floor, hand-in-hand with Hermione. He blinked and stared down into her face; she gazed up at him expectantly.

‘Bellatrix cursed you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘And Voldemort modified my memory so I would think he had done it—to make it seem worse, I suppose.’

Her lips were parted as she looked up at him, and he wanted so badly to taste her sweet mouth, knowing the horror of seeing the Dark Lord alive again would be washed away by the purity of Hermione.

Wrenching his eyes from her, he released her hand and stepped away. ‘I appreciate this additional information,’ he said courteously. ‘I’ll be sure the appropriate authorities are informed …’

She pursued him, grasping his shirt in her fists. ‘Don’t you understand?’ she said, giving him a little shake. ‘The last time we made love—the last three times we made love!—I was no longer under the curse, Severus!’

He glared down his nose at her, trying not to notice how very much of the curve of her breasts he could see in the loosely belted dressing gown. ‘Of what, exactly, are you accusing me?’ he hissed.

‘I am telling you that I wanted you so much without the benefit of the curse that you had to fuck me three times just to make me leave you alone!’ she cried, and her indignation lent strength to her arms as she pushed him into a sprawl upon the sofa. He struggled to right himself, but froze in his tracks as she shrugged out of the dressing gown and stood before him, naked and golden in the candlelight.

He stared at her, want of her drowning his promise to Dumbledore in a tsunami of indifference. He struggled feebly to remember that promise—never had he allowed his own desires to overrule his duty!—but for the first time in his life he felt an emotion which dwarfed his devotion to Albus Dumbledore, and he found that he had no will to stand against it.

Wordlessly, Hermione knelt upon the floor at his feet, her hands busy at this waist. Dumbfounded, he watched her unclasp his belt, unfasten the placket of his trousers, and draw his pants out and down until his cock and bollocks were free of constraint. She stroked one hand down the shaft of his erection, her other hand cupping, lifting, and gently rolling his balls in their sac.

‘Hermione!’ he gasped.

She answered with a smile, pumping her fist slowly up and down, then up and down again. ‘This relationship has been too much about me for too long,’ she said, her voice husky. ‘I really want to taste …’

She dipped her head and for the second time in one week he felt the bliss of her lips closing over the knob of his cock. He gasped again, but formed no intelligible words, simply allowing his head to fall back on the sofa, feeling as if his eyes were rolling back in their sockets. Holy fuck!

Her tongue swirled slowly over his cock head as she applied gentled suction, then her mouth began to slide with exquisite leisure down his length, and the hand which grasped him travelled ahead of her mouth, as if blazing the way to his bollocks. Her other hand moved to lay flat upon his hip before sliding upward, beneath his shirt; her fingertip invaded his navel just as the tip of his cock touched the back of her throat, and his hands closed convulsively over the sofa cushions as he fought the impulse to thrust.

Now her mouth began the slow trip back up his shaft, the hand which followed applying perfect pressure in its wake; the hand beneath his shirt charted a course to the flat disc of his nipple, her thumb and forefinger giving the nub the tiniest of pinches before sliding across to repeat the process. The hand upon his chest was nice, but oh dear Merlin, the mouth on his cock trumped everything.

Her tongue swirled once, twice, thrice, and he emitted a strangled groan, striving for some measure of control. Tentatively, he laced the fingers of one hand in her hair, and she moaned deep in her throat, sending a mind-blowing vibration down the length of his erection. Instinct wrested control from him, and he thrust shallowly into her mouth; she approved this action so whole-heartedly that the questing hand deserted his chest and clamped upon his hip, as if to urge him more deeply into her incredible mouth.

An intense few minutes passed with him slowly fucking her mouth, alternating between staring down disbelievingly at his cock moving slickly between her lips and throwing his head back, eyes closed, his fingertips splayed over her cheeks and her upper throat, feeling her muscles work as she sucked him.

Some measure of sanity came slowly back to him, and he reached down insistently, closing his hands over her shoulders and tugging until she let his cock loose with a pop, her out-of-focus gaze as much a goad to him as the greedy little tongue which swept over her lower lip, as if to taste his cock again.

‘Bed,’ he croaked to her, urging until she moved unsteadily to her feet, and he followed suit, prodding her to begin walking and following her into the bedroom, holding up his clothes with one hand.

The wanton looked over her shoulder at him, deliberately showing him her tongue again, making a licking motion. He released his clothing and let the pants and trousers fall to the floor; he stepped out of them, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, his slick, bobbing cock leading the way to the inviting orifices of his tormentor. Her passion-muzzy eyes dared him as she scrambled up onto his bed, and she paused on all fours, the pink of her inner lips glistening amidst the dark curls. With an inchoate utterance, he lurched forward and buried his nose and mouth in the pink, nuzzling, licking, suckling, as she squirmed and moaned, simultaneously pressing back to fill his mouth with her nectar and wriggling away, requiring him to pursue, until he immobilised her with the strength of the fingers digging into her hips. He did not release her until she cried out, the sound he knew so well he heard it in his sleep; he pressed a final kiss to her clitoris and climbed properly onto the bed, pulling her along until she sagged at his side, sated and smug.

He moved over her, fastening his mouth to hers, his hands at her breasts, and she responded immediately, lacing her fingers in his hair, parting her thighs to accommodate him, and lifting her hips to take him within, moaning her appreciation into his mouth. He filled her, releasing her lips and grasping the bedstead, staring down into her face as he pumped in and out of her body. Her eyes were wide, her mouth a perfect ‘o’ of pleasure, her breaths panting. He drank in the sight of her abandon, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this passion existed for his sake, and for no other reason, the empowerment of this knowledge driving him deeper into her body, eliciting from her now little whimpers of pleasure with each snap of his hips.

‘Tell me,’ she begged, raising her hands to frame his face.

‘Tell me,’ he responded in a growl, ruthlessly rotating his hips, the tip of his cock stroking up one side of her vaginal wall.

‘I love you!’ she gasped, her fingernails digging into his back, and she arched her neck, her eyes scrunched closed, her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

With an almighty spasm, he let loose a guttural cry of completion, continuing to move over her body until utter exhaustion caused him to drop at her side, sweating and heaving. For several seconds he strove to calm his breathing, feeling as if he had just set the stars alight in the heavens for her delectation.

When he opened his eyes, she watched him with brown eyes alight with wonder. Jubilation overcoming his enervation, he pulled her against his sweat-covered body and kissed her as if for the last time … as if for the first time.

‘I love you,’ he said and held her against his heart as she cried her happiness into his flesh, his own tears mingling with the sweat which traced down his angular face.

When she woke up, she found she had burrowed close beneath his arm, her nose all but buried between his armpit and his chest wall. She could not prevent the ghosting of her lips over his flesh, and his grunt of protest informed her that he was not asleep.

He murmured and the candles about the bed were lit; she raised herself up on an elbow and looked down into his beloved face, noting the overlarge hook of his nose, the sensual curve of his lips, and the unending night of his eyes. She cupped his cheek and kissed his mouth softly, chastely. ‘Mine,’ she said, stroking her thumb over his stubbled cheek.

One side of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

‘I think, for the sake of our relative positions, I should stay in the Head Girl’s quarters until the end of Summer Term,’ she said, smoothing his oily hair back from his forehead.

His eyes remained fastened upon her face, moving from her mouth to her eyes to the shadow of the cleft between her breasts, then back to her eyes again; he did not speak.

‘After the students go home for the summer, I can move in properly,’ she went on, stroking his flanks, watching the changes in his eyes as she touched him. ‘I reckon I can take you home to meet my parents the week after term time ends—they probably won’t be too happy about me living with you, but meeting you will help them not to worry quite so much.’

He continued watching her, as she spoke; when she mentioned her parents’ probable discomfort with her living arrangements, one wicked eyebrow rose interrogatively. Still, he said nothing.

‘Well, of course they’re going to object, at first, but they’ll come round—everyone will come round, when they see how happy we are together.’ She smiled happily down into his face, and the crinkling of the lines at the corners of his eyes was his only response to her. It was enough—it was more than enough. She bent her head to him and her lips touched his, her tongue tickling the corner of his mouth until he parted his lips to allow her full access. He lay quiescent within her arms and allowed her to kiss and caress him, soaking up the affection like a sponge. At last, she trailed a hand down his belly and encountered his hardening member.

‘You liked it when I sucked you, didn’t you?’ she whispered, lightly stroking him.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and drew her hand from beneath the bedclothes to his lips; he held her hand as if it were quite fragile and kissed it.

‘We can’t do this,’ he whispered, and the anguish in his eyes was very real.

Hermione felt cold fear in her lower abdomen. ‘Of course we can,’ she whispered back.

His hand stroked her hair tenderly back from her face. ‘You’re too young—I’m too old—it would be wrong on so many different levels, Hermione.’

She sat up abruptly, her heart beginning to flop about unpleasantly in her chest, as if having difficulty remembering how to beat properly.

‘Stop,’ she said, her throat hurting terribly as she tried to speak past the lump forming there. ‘Don’t—you’re scaring me.’

‘I would be the worst of bad men to allow you to throw yourself away on me,’ he told her gently, moving now to sit up as well.

Hermione stared into his implacable black eyes and knew he was deadly serious about what he was saying. Tears started to her eyes—what was she to do with him?

You’ll know when the time comes, the voice whispered in her ear.

She touched the Nexus with her fingertips and it became visible, dangling between her breasts like a finely wrought silver baby’s rattle. Severus’ eyes darted to her chest as she touched the Nexus, and she was fairly sure she read alarm in his expression.

‘You gave this Nexus to me when you took my virginity,’ she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her breast, where his fingertips touched hers upon the surface of the heavy pendant. ‘It was the greatest gift you could conceive of—an ancient magical item in which to store my virgin’s blood—a token with which I could make a lifelong commitment with the wizard of my choice at the time of my choice.’

She moved up onto her knees, kneeling over him; he removed his fingers from the Nexus, looking as if he would very much like to remove himself from the bed, but Hermione wrapped her fingers now about his wrist.

‘Will you not kneel with me to hear what I have to say?’ she asked him, sounding more confident than she felt, the fingertips of her right hand holding the Nexus.

Swallowing audibly, Severus shifted into a kneeling position, facing her upon the bed where he had taken her virginity.

‘Severus Snape,’ she said, feeling the words forming in her mind, but having no idea from whence they came, ‘I offer you my commitment to our love, bound by the magic of this blood-consecrated vessel, to encompass all our interactions and the lives of our children, until such time as our vow is broken by death or design. What say you?’

Never had she seen him so open, his eyes unshuttered, twin pools of liquid ebony, shining in the candlelight; his expression was awe and admiration, foreboding and faith, despair and desire, all at once.

‘I say that your offer humbles and amazes me … and catches me a bit by surprise,’ he said quietly. ‘May I entreat you to give me time to consider? It is, you will admit, a weighty decision, not to be made lightly.’

Hermione threw herself into his arms, and he received her with all signs of gladness, dipping his head to capture her lips in a kiss. He had not said ‘no’—he had not spoken of age and unworthiness—he had not laughed or turned her away. She communicated her happiness with the ardour of her kiss, and he, in turn, communicated his reciprocation with the hunger of his response, pressing her back onto their pillows and visiting every one of his favourite places on her body with lips and fingers seemingly made all the more wicked by their mutual craving. When he plunged again into her body, it was with a wordless ferocity which quickly carried her beyond herself; only the touch of her flesh to his anchored them to one another, until at last they floated as fellow fragments in the aftermath, and thence, into sleep.

When morning came, Hermione woke with a smile upon her lips, which persisted as she searched for him through the empty rooms, not finding him in the bathroom, the sitting room, or the brewing room. She was standing in the bedroom, frowning at the empty wardrobe, when Winky popped into the room and handed her the note, inscribed with only her name, in his spiky black handwriting.