Chapter 14: Recovering

A/N: Beta-reading thanks to DeeMichelle; MagicAlly scrubbed the rampant Yank-isms out of the chapter; Shug (sshg316) cheerleaded and alpha-read.

Chapter 14: Recovering

That afternoon, Hermione slipped into N.E.W.T. Potions at the last minute, setting up her cauldron next to Ernie McMillan, near the back of the room. An icy blast had coated the outside of the castle and all its environs with a glittering coat of ice, making the dungeon even more miserable than it usually was in winter. To add insult to injury, the sleet had turned to snow, which was falling heavily and covering everything in a thick blanket of white.

When class began, Professor Snape looked up from what he was doing at his desk only long enough to inform them tersely that the formula for their assignment was on the board.

Hermione tried to ignore the thrumming of the compulsion as it pulsed through her, made worse, as always, by the sound of his voice. It was becoming more and more difficult to bear being around him, considering the way he was behaving towards her. She had begun to believe that he cared for her – for her, not for the frequency of their coupling or for the intensity of the sex. The gesture he had made the day of the Valentine's Day Ball – to send Scampy to dress her – had been an act of thoughtfulness she could not shrug off as general decency. It had been the action of a man very personally concerned with his woman's state of mind. From the moment she had held the black Bacarra roses to her face and inhaled their scent, she had been on a cloud of excitement and anticipation such as she had never before experienced. For the first time in her life, she had felt like a woman sure of the interest of the man of her choice; she now knew what the other girls had been on about all this time. It was heady and intoxicating, and the feeling was so large it felt as if it would burst from her body like a flock of pealing bells, rising up and up and up until the Great Hall itself was filled with the singing of her exhilaration.

When he had asked her to dance, in front of the entire school, she had felt sorry for every other female in the room. The minor details – that he had danced with several others before he asked her, that he had only danced with her once – paled beside the fact that he had singled her out in front of everyone. Leaving his arms, she had slipped away from the dance, unwilling to mar the memory by dancing with one more stumbling boy. She had floated up to Gryffindor Tower and fetched her music box, then she had Flooed to the professor's rooms, where she had ordered Winky to provide a tea service. Brewing his tea – preparing it just as she knew he liked it – had made her feel so ... adult. The other word floating about in her mind – wifely– she had batted away from her consciousness, but only after goose bumps had covered her body with a delicious shiver of possibility.

Now, with practiced efficiency, she set the flame beneath her cauldron and began to brew the assigned potion, doing her best to ignore the fine tremor present in her hands, relic of the building sexual need. She was only sorry that the chopping of the ingredients prevented her from wearing the dragon-hide gloves in her bag, which would more efficiently disguise the shaking ....

Her attention wandered, again.

With an internal squirm of embarrassment, she remembered what she had said to him just before they had danced in his bedroom. 'You have the finest body, the most regal bearing, and the keenest mind of any man I have ever met – and in a roomful of other wizards, in comparison to them, the power radiates from you like rays from the sun.'

When he had not argued with her impassioned declaration, she had been foolish enough to believe he accepted her words. The way he had made love to her – there was no other word for it, really – over and again, and then called her 'petal' ...

'Wool-gathering in my class, Miss Granger?' a dangerous voice purred from behind her. 'Five points from Gryffindor.'

Startled to hear him speak in her ear, when he had just been speaking – and with such tenderness! – in her mind, she started, and the involuntary movement knocked her bottle of armadillo bile to the stone floor, where it shattered.

'Inattention will never be tolerated in this classroom!' he hissed, cleaning away the glass shards and the spilt ingredient with a precise wave of his wand. 'Ten more points from Gryffindor!'

'I'm sorry, Professor,' she whispered to the contents of her cauldron, careful not to look at him. She wanted him to move away before he noticed the trembling of her hands. She was not supposed to let the compulsion reach this stage of need, but she had been unable to force herself to go to him at lunch. It was humiliating, the way he never spoke to her, seemed to kiss her only in anger, and withheld his seed as if afraid she would conceive, when he knew very well the potion she ingested to prevent her pregnancy made that an impossibility. He bloody well stood over her every month when she swallowed it, and he brewed it himself – why was he turning away from her as soon as she climaxed? She knew he was relieving himself in the bathroom. Was she suddenly so distasteful he could only bring himself off by leaving her presence? She bit her lip and fought back the tears starting to her eyes; she had been over this in her mind time and time again without coming to any conclusion, and he was not helping her to understand, for he responded to her questions with nothing save silence.

What had she done?

'Your hands are trembling.'

Hermione froze. He was still there, right behind her, and the shaking seemed to increase with the mere knowledge of his presence. She closed her hands into fists and thrust them into the pockets of her cloak. 'It's quite cold in here, sir,' she replied. In the next instant, she felt him touch her, and she whirled to snap at him, only to realise he was rubbing the fabric of her cloak between his fingers. She closed her eyes. She really wasn't strong enough for this confrontation now.

'McMillan!'

Hermione and Ernie both turned their faces to their professor at this hissed communication.

'Sir?' Ernie replied nervously.

'Move to an empty table,' Professor Snape said coldly, wielding his wand and sending Ernie's bubbling cauldron floating away.

Ernie gathered his ingredients and other belongings and hurried to join his cauldron at its new location.

When Ernie had gone, the professor took a step closer to Hermione and said, his anger not disguised by the silky tones in which he spoke, 'This is not your cloak!'

Hermione gathered the folds of her inexpensive Muggle-made cloak closer and hunched her shoulders, as if to move closer to her cauldron fire. 'I prefer it,' she muttered, speaking to the flames and trying desperately to battle back the demands of the curse, which dictated she should grab her teacher's hands and put them on her aching quim.

'Look at me when I speak to you, girl!' Professor Snape demanded. 'I cannot hear a word you're saying.'

Feeling her control unravel like a badly-knit scarf, Hermione jerked about to face her tormentor, her voice an unmodulated screech. 'You haven't heard a word I've spoken to you in a week! Why should now be any different?'

Every head in the room turned, shocked eyes staring at the Head Girl, who had just shouted at the strictest, least reasonable teacher in the whole school. Hermione was nearly too far gone in sexual need to care, but the professor apparently retained his senses.

'Any person looking at anything other than his or her cauldron will receive a zero for today's lesson,' he snarled, and all heads swivelled away.

'Go to my office,' he ordered her, clearing the unfinished potion from her cauldron with the wave of his wand. She hesitated for an instant and he leant towards her. 'Now,' he added, 'or it will be a zero and a detention.'

She turned from him wordlessly, hearing not the threat in his words, but the promise of relief. The trembling had spread from her arms to her legs, and she stumbled a bit as she left the Potions classroom. Desperation drove her blindly along the freezing corridor to the professor's office. The door was locked and warded, but Hermione touched her wand to the doorknob and spoke her emergency password. The door opened and she gained admittance to the gloomy room, its walls lined by shelves of odd specimens, floating in a variety different-coloured potions. She tossed her cloak into a chair, and then she frantically tugged her damp knickers off and stuffed them unceremoniously into her bag, a groan passing her lips as the knuckles of her hands grazed her quim.

Simply being in his office was an erotic odyssey – how many times had she ridden his hands to orgasm whilst straddling him in that chair? Or been laid out upon his desktop with his hands on her breasts and his mouth on her clitoris? Or been lifted onto the table against the wall – a table which just happened to be of the perfect height for him to fuck her?

She had lost count.

When he entered the office a moment later, she launched herself at him, all hurt feelings forgotten, the impact of her body on his driving him into the door and causing it to slam with unwonted violence. She grabbed his right hand and pulled it to her breast as her other hand grasped the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him down to kiss her mouth. She was aware of his wand hand making the necessary motions to ward the room against intrusion and sound before he yanked her skirt to her waist and slid his hands beneath her bare buttocks, hefting her up; in the spirit of cooperation, Hermione wrapped her legs around him, crying out as the woollen fabric of his trousers abraded her damp thighs.

In two long strides he deposited her unceremoniously on the tabletop, his fingers deserting her flesh to unfasten his fly and to free his unquestionably erect cock. Hermione moaned loudly as he entered her; he braced one hand on the wall behind her as he leant into his labour, the other hand clamped with bruising strength at her hip. On the third thrust, Hermione climaxed with a scream which echoed in the high-ceilinged room. The professor cursed aloud and glared menacingly into her sex-glazed eyes. 'Do that again,' he hissed, 'and I shall gag you.'

Inexplicably aroused by his threat, Hermione climaxed again, shuddering so violently that one flailing hand inadvertently knocked a book to the floor. The crash of the heavy text on the stone floor seemed to bring the professor back to himself, and he sought to disengage himself from her, but Hermione clamped her legs about him with more strength than before. 'No!' she cried. 'I'm not finished!'

His inarticulate growl grew louder as he leant into her again, resuming the steady pace of his thrusts. Hermione rocked her hips in rhythm with him, determined he would not leave this encounter unmoved. With one hand, she opened her plain white blouse and released the front-clasp on her bra, baring her breasts to him. As she had hoped, his eyes went unerringly to the bouncing of her breasts, and she upped the ante by running her hand over first one erect nipple and then the other, knowing quite well how much he enjoyed watching her touch herself thus. She knew then, from the increasingly ragged quality of his breathing, that he was approaching the end of his endurance. Accordingly, her hand deserted her breasts in favour of her clitoris, and she rubbed herself to another orgasm just before he stiffened and closed his eyes, his clamped lips permitting no sound to leave him as he released his seed into her body.

Hermione felt a moment of inarticulate triumph. This was the first time since he had begun to withdraw from her that she had induced him to come in spite of his own desires, and the victory was sweet. Pleased with herself, she rested her head back for a moment, closing her eyes and remaining in place, with him collecting shuddering breaths above her as he regained his equanimity.

Thank God she had that sorted, now – she would be able to meet Viktor at dinner in a calm and reasonable frame of mind and catch up with him on what they had each been doing lately. Feeling conciliatory, she opened her eyes again and moved up onto her elbows, looking up at the professor.

She was startled when he lunged at her, taking hold of her chin with an ungentle grasp and staring into her eyes. Too late, Hermione wrenched away from him, but she need not have bothered. He pushed her from him with a disdainful snarl and began to button himself back into his clothing, unmindful of the mess they had made.

'Thinking about Krum whilst rutting with me?' he hissed, anger rolling off him in waves.

Hermione scrambled to sit up straight, uncaring of her own disarray. 'No!' she cried, distressed. 'I wasn't – I wouldn't – '

'Pretty poor behaviour, Miss Granger, even for a teenage nymphomaniac!' Danger flashed from his cold black eyes. 'Let him touch you, and you both will rue the day,' he promised.

'You don't understand –'

But he had already turned from her, snatching her old cloak from the chair upon which she had abandoned it and chucking it into the fireplace, then standing back with arms crossed over his chest to watch it burn.

'Stop!' Hermione shouted, pushing past him with her wand up. 'Accio my cloak!'

He blocked her spell with a non-verbal one of his own and thrust his arm out to prevent her rushing forward to snatch it up with her hands.

'Don't bother,' he said nastily. 'It's already past repair – unlike the cloak I gave you, this one did not even have a flame retardant charm on it!' He glared down his nose at her. 'You will wear your proper cloak from now on,' he informed her. His eyes flicked over her once, standing beside him with her bra and blouse open, looking as if she'd just been shagged in a terrific hurry. 'Get dressed and get out,' he advised her. 'I'm going back to your classmates before they incinerate the castle.'

He stalked out without a backward glance, and Hermione's face flamed with a sudden feeling of humiliation. Where had the scorn come from? And the horrid dislike? For all his irritability and his prickly ways, she had come to trust that she was safe with him. Not only physically safe – which she did not doubt, even now – but emotionally safe, as well. He had never treated her as if the curse she bore was a personal deficit of some sort. Yet, increasingly – since the Valentine's Day Ball, actually – he had been treating her differently. When she came to him because she was driven by hapless need, he responded to her as if she was imposing on him. No longer did he seem like her solid support in this horrible ordeal. Instead, when she was with him, she felt as if he was an unwilling participant and as if she was an unreasonable tart. On one or two occasions, in the heat of their exchange, she had found again her safe place in him, but more and more, he left her feeling soiled and hopeless.

Trying to ignore the hurt and anger warring in her breast, she straightened her clothes and hurried cloakless through the icy corridors, eager to reach the safety and comparative warmth of Gryffindor Tower.

Sitting beside Viktor at dinner in the Great Hall, surrounded by her cheerful House-mates, it was easy to be diverted by the semblance of carefree youth. Viktor had grown into his fame a bit and acquired a few more social skills than he had possessed at seventeen. He told Quidditch anecdotes to which the boys listened with appreciation, whilst the girls flicked looks from Hermione to Viktor and back again, calculating.

Hermione was aware of Viktor's attraction to her. He frequently caught her eye, occasionally touching her hand or arm, and once, his fingertips brushed over her knee beneath the table. Clearly, he was still interested in her. Although she was generally unmoved by his touches, her vanity was very much flattered by his gallantry, and the ragged edges of her rapidly diminishing self-regard were smoothed by his open admiration.

Three years before, Viktor had sought her out in the library, and their association had been conducted in private. Now, he was far more sure of himself, and he was perfectly willing for every person present in the Great Hall to know he fancied Hermione Granger. After three months of being Professor Snape's dirty little secret, Viktor's public attention was a welcome relief. She basked in his regard and allowed herself, just once, to exist in the moment.

Professor Snape had not been at the teachers' table when Hermione had taken her seat, and she did not spare a thought for him – until Ron, of all people, reminded her. Lavender was leading Ron away from the table when he paused by Hermione and bent to whisper in her ear.

'Good job,' he whispered. 'I've never seen the ugly git look so pissed-off.' Chuckling to himself, Ron nudged Lavender, and they continued on, out of the Great Hall.

Hermione bit her lip and stared at her chocolate gateau. She knew that if she looked up at her teacher, and he was looking unhappy with her, her enjoyment of Viktor's company would be spoilt – so, she didn't look. She would see Professor Snape soon enough, after all. For now, it was all right to think of herself, rather than of him.

Viktor leant over to her, his lips close to her ear. 'I vould like to talk vif you, Herm-own-ninny. Vill you come to my room for a glass of mead? I haf a sitting room vif a nice fire,' he added.

Hermione smiled down at her pudding. 'I'd like that,' she said, blushing.

Viktor stood and waited for her to rise, then rested one hand proprietarily in the small of her back as they headed out of the Great Hall. A laughing group of Ravenclaws passed through the Entrance Hall, chattering excitedly about a moonlight snowball fight in the freshly-fallen snow. As they moved out the castle doors, a blast of cold air came in, and Hermione shivered in spite of the two jumpers she wore.

'You're freezing!' Viktor said, whipping his fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and draping it around her. 'Vere is your cloak?'

Hermione clutched the garment, still warm from Viktor's body, close around her. 'I don't have one,' she lied. 'It was burnt up in an accident ... in Charms.'

They left the Great Hall, and Hermione was unaware of the malignant glare which followed them until they were out of sight.

Viktor was staying in a guest suite on the seventh floor, along the corridor from the entrance to the headmaster's office, on the opposite side of the castle from the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. When they entered the sitting room, the fire was burning brightly in the grate on Hermione's left, and all the candles were lit. Hermione glanced around, noting the open doorway into the bedroom on her right. Viktor crossed the room to a drinks table set between two windows, beneath a painting of a grumpy-looking yellow-haired shepherd girl and her flock.

'Mulled mead?' he asked Hermione. 'Or vould you prefer Firewhisky?' He smiled at her disarmingly. 'I could ask the house-elf to bring a Butterbeer, as vell.'

Hermione laid Viktor's furry cloak over the back of the sofa before the fireplace and crossed to stand beside him. 'Mead for me,' she said, distracted by the scandalised-looking shepherd girl. 'What are you looking at?' she muttered.

Viktor handed Hermione a glass and glanced up at the painting. The shepherdess had gone back to petting a lamb. 'Who are you talking to?' he asked. Hermione didn't answer, so he took her elbow and steered her toward the sofa. 'Let's sit down,' he suggested. 'I vant to hear all about vhat you've been doing.'

Hermione settled on the sofa and sipped at her mead, enjoying the warmth of the fire. She felt slightly nervous to be alone with Viktor in his room; she didn't think it was wrong, exactly, but she couldn't think of anyone who would think it was a good idea, either. She sipped again and stared at the fire, tongue-tied.

'How haf you been?' Viktor asked her.

'Very well,' she answered, looking at him for the first time since they had sat down. His dark eyes were alight with attraction. She felt both flattered and slightly alarmed. She swallowed. 'And you?' she asked desperately.

He began to talk about his Quidditch career, seeming to wish to impress her with the account of his life of celebrity. Hermione sipped her mead and relaxed, lulled by the warmth of the fire on her skin and the warmth of the wine in her tummy – and the warmth of Viktor's eyes each time they rested on her face. She knew he was eyeing her up, as well; more than once she caught his gaze wandering from her face, to her chest, to her legs, and back again.

At length he said, 'Are you seeing somevone?'

Hermione started and shifted a bit away from Viktor, who had put his arm along the back of the sofa. To cover her evasive manoeuvre, she turned a bit on the seat so that she was facing him. 'It's complicated,' she answered honestly.

He gave her a crooked smile. 'Somevone who has left school?' he asked.

'In a way,' Hermione hedged. 'Someone older,' she added.

He glanced at her hands. 'You're not promised to him?'

'Oh, no,' she said, slightly amused at the concept. 'It's not like that.'

His brow furrowed as he studied her expression. 'But he took your virginity,' he said flatly.

Hermione gasped and looked directly into his eyes. 'How ...?' she sputtered.

Viktor reached out, and she froze, uncertain of how to react. Encouraged by her silence, his fingers dipped just beneath the neckline of her jumper, and unerringly, he lifted the Nexus up and brought it out from beneath the layers of clothing. 'This is how I know,' he said simply.

A loud gasp sounded from behind her, and Hermione turned to see who had entered the room – but there was no one there. She noticed that the painting on the wall was now populated only by grazing sheep and lambs. Unnerved, she stood. 'I should go now,' she said.

Viktor stood as well, taking her glass of mulled mead and placing it beside his on the table before the sofa. Then he took her cold hands and gave them a gentle squeeze, smiling down into her face. 'I vish you vould stay,' he said. 'I haf missed you, Herm-own-ninny. The girls I meet are shallow and silly – not clever and good, like you.'

Hermione felt confused. Viktor was obviously still besotted with her, as he had been three years before. She knew he was kind and gentle, always considerate of her – his very presence was like a balm to her spirit. But she wasn't free to begin a relationship with someone. She had even promised not to kiss boys whilst she was entangled with the professor – and, truth to tell, she had no interest in kissing Viktor. His bulk was a comfort, but his body held no fascination for her. It was only his kindness and understanding she craved.

'I really like being around you, Viktor,' she said, 'but I am still ... involved with him.'

With the lightest of touches, he cupped her cheek. 'But you are not promised to him,' he reminded her.

Hermione gave a short shake of her head, distracted by the way Viktor's fingertips stroked the soft skin of her cheek. The banked desire stirred, and her quim throbbed once, moisture seeping from suddenly-swollen tissue between her thighs. It was not Viktor of whom she thought, though – at the first glimmer of longing, it was the austere, sneering face of Severus Snape which danced before her eyes. She needed him now.

'Shocking!' a reedy old voice cried.

Hermione jumped back from Viktor, whirling again to see who had spoken. The yellow-haired shepherdess was back, her arms crossed smugly beneath her breasts, and beside her was an old man with a long white beard and a shiny bald head. Hermione stared hard at the old man – where had she seen him before?

'Ignore him, Herm-own-ninny,' Viktor said dismissively, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. 'Portraits in this castle are given ridiculous liberty to move about and speak – I vould stun them all into silence,' he added darkly.

'The Head Girl, alone with a man in his bedroom, unchaperoned!' the old man continued as if Viktor had not threatened him. 'I shall report this to the headmaster at once!'

'I know who you are!' Hermione said suddenly, walking away from Viktor and standing before the painting with her hands on her hips. 'You belong in that painting in the dungeon corridor! What are you doing up here?' Her eyes flicked to the smirking shepherdess. 'Aren't you a bit old for her?'

The old man began to sputter, and the shepherdess began to screech, and soon they were shouting at one another. Satisfied, Hermione turned away from them and marched to Viktor's door. She had someplace else to be.

'Herm-own-ninny!' Viktor protested as she opened the door, and she turned with a fleeting smile.

'I'll see you later, Viktor!'

She shut the door and hurried down the corridor towards the portrait of the Fat Lady. As she rounded the corner, she heard Viktor's door open again and him calling 'good bye' in a very bemused way.

Moments later she stepped through the Floo into the professor's sitting room, where she found him sitting in his armchair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed, and a sneer settled on his thin lips. Rather than speaking to her, he held out his glass, as if in a toast, his eyes fierce and his expression ironic.

'You think you're very clever, don't you?' Hermione demanded, advancing on him and standing with her hands on her hips, unconsciously mimicking her stance before the portrait in Viktor's room.

'Indeed,' he murmured, taking another sip of the amber liquid. 'Have some Firewhisky, Miss Granger – it's not as good as the sort we'll have after I win my bet with Professor McGonagall, but it will do a satisfactory job, nevertheless.'

Hermione's eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms, her lips pressed in a tight white line.

He studied her as he sipped. 'All right, I'll bite: Why, in your estimation, do I think I'm clever?'

'Because you set the portraits to spy on me!' she cried, her restraint abandoned, her indignation pouring out. 'How dare you?'

In an instant he had slammed the glass of whisky onto the table, and he towered over her, his expression livid and frightening. 'No!' he spat. 'How dare you? We had an agreement. No involvement with third parties whilst we are imprisoned by this thrice-damned curse!'

His sudden proximity washed over her like a narcotic, scrubbing her righteous anger from her memory and replacing the impetus with raw passion. She grabbed his hands and brought them to her breasts, reaching out and cupping his testicles through his trousers. 'Fuck me,' she gasped, pleading.

One of his thin, strong hands forced her chin up, and he stared into her eyes as his other hand closed over the Nexus, dangling on the outside of her clothing, exposed. She waited for his questions, but they never came; instead, he probed her mind, and Hermione struggled against him, unwilling that he should witness her time alone with Viktor in his sitting room. Vainly, she attempted to twist away from him, hoping to break eye contact and wrench her face from his hands – but he was too strong for her to pull away, and somehow, he compelled her to keep her eyes open, permitting him full access to her memories.

At last, he released her chin and wound his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, restraining her. A vicious smile was on his lips. 'Promised to me?'

Had she been less needful, Hermione might have blanched at the note of mockery in his voice, but as it was, she retaliated by wrapping the fingers of one hand in his hair, pulling him down and nipping insistently at his lips. 'Fuck me,' she said again, her free hand grasping his shaft through his trousers. He had no need of the potion, tonight – he was hard as a rock already. She wanted his cock.

His hips jerked forward involuntarily into her fist. With a growl, he pulled his wand free, and a non-verbal spell later, she stood unclothed upon his hearth rug. He had Vanished two jumpers, a matching bra and knickers set, her favourite jeans, and her socks and trainers.

'Damn it, Severus!' she gasped, releasing him and going for her wand to retaliate.

'No,' he snarled, snatching her wand from its sheath before she could reach it and tossing it into the armchair, just out of her grasp. Before she could react to his infamous act, he released her hair and brought both hands to her breasts, first palming them, then beginning to apply pressure to her crinkled nipples with his thumbs and forefingers, pinching and rolling until she thought her eyes would roll up into her head.

'What do you want?' he demanded, his voice now low and silken.

'Oh, God, please – fuck me!' she cried, trembling with need.

'Perhaps,' he said and released her, sitting down on the sofa. 'Accio my glass,' he said lazily, watching as his abandoned whisky zoomed obediently into his hand.

Hermione moved to him, attempting to straddle him upon the sofa cushions, but he prevented her. Frustrated, she stood at his knee, wringing her hands. 'What do you want me to do?' she asked. He had never been this way before.

He took a deep draught from his glass, his eyes raking over her naked form. 'How badly do you want it?' he asked idly.

Hermione sagged to the floor, her knees trembling too badly to hold her. 'You know!' she said. 'You already know!' She looked up at him pitifully, seeing no sympathy in his merciless black eyes – only calculation.

'What would you do for it?' he asked her, his voice so low she had to strain to hear him.

She simply quivered at his feet, her hands sliding up his thighs, unable to keep from trying to touch him, to somehow persuade him to come into her body and to quench the fire swiftly consuming her sanity.

Unexpectedly, her entire body clenched, as if someone had cast a Full-Body Bind upon her. She fell over, her legs straightening and becoming rigid. In the next instant, she began to convulse, the waves of desire wracking her body as she was pushed beyond her physical limitations.

'Hermione!'

She heard someone calling her name, but she was unable to respond. She could feel her arms and her legs jerking, as if at random. Now, hands were on her body, trying to hold her down, but it was hopeless. At last, a deep, resonant voice said, 'Petrificus Totalus!' and her muscles froze, ending the horrid convulsions.

She was aware of being levitated, and she soon saw the bedroom ceiling above her, just as she came to rest upon a soft bed; the scent of his body permeated the sheets beneath her, and a new feeling of deep contentment overcame her. It had been days since she had slept in his bed, and being here now was like coming home. She waited for him to say Finite Incantatem, but the counter-command did not come. Instead, she became aware of his strong, warm hands massaging her legs, beginning with her feet and moving up, performing the massage with competence, as he did all things.

As his hands massaged her inner thighs, she felt herself flooding with wetness, and she knew he could smell her arousal. She was sure, now, that he would address her needs, and she calmed beneath his ministrations. Undoubtedly, he had decided to let the spell wear off naturally, and in the meantime, he meant to do what he could to soothe her knotted muscles.

When he reached her shoulders she could, at last, see his face, which was tense with concentration. She had seen the same look on his face when brewing a tricky potion – and when stroking in and out of her body, carrying them both outside of themselves to a different plane of existence. She desperately wanted to touch him – to pull those thin lips down so she could kiss him – but she was yet unable to move.

When he had carefully massaged her neck, he moved out of her sight, and she tried to vocalize an objection, but no sound came from her. Next, though, she felt him again at her inner thighs, and her breath stilled in her lungs – what would he do?

Her legs were too closely held by the spell for her quim to be spread open to him, but his clever fingers slipped through the curls into the slick heat, and he began to stroke her lightly, pleasuring her as surely, mute and unmoving, as he did with her full vocal cooperation. As the orgasm crested over her, the perceptible loosening of the binding curse began. She could not speak or make voluntary motions, but now he could manipulate her limbs, and he did so, his shoulders pressed into her thighs as he lapped and suckled at her needy clit. He knew her so well, he was able to gauge her climax by her breathing alone. When he rose over her, his body now joined to her, rocking rhythmically, every pass of his ridged cock over her clitoris like a shock directly to the pleasure centre of her brain, she found that she could move again. Her muscles were sore from the convulsion, but she could raise her arms to hold and caress him, the bringer of pleasure and relief. Her body cradled him as he coaxed it steadily to another peak of bliss, and her soft cries were joined by his own gasps as they fell together through the waterfall of completion.

In the quiet dark, as he spooned behind her, a protective arm about her waist, holding her against him, she said, 'That was very odd – did you know that could happen to me?'

He sounded strange, his breath ghosting over her ear, making her hair flutter, as he said, 'Convulsions are a known side-effect, usually the result of great stress, but very rare.'

'Oh,' she said, a yawn creeping in and distorting her speech. 'D'you mind if I sleep here?' she murmured.

His only answer was to tighten his hold on her and to pull the counterpane more securely over their spooned bodies.

As she drifted on the edge of sleep, she thought she heard him say, 'I'm sorry' – but she couldn't be sure.

In the wee hours, roused by an erotic dream, she turned into his arms, waking him with a slow, languorous kiss. She closed her fist about his stirring cock, stroking him to rigidity, as his fingertips slid down her belly to tease her clit with steady, circular motion. He pushed her onto her back and moved between her legs, slipping back into her body with a groan matched neatly by her simultaneous sigh. Their coupling was punctuated by no words, but bracketed by the timeless sounds of animal pleasure. She cried out, and still he strove over her, until she whimpered again, shuddering beneath his determined assault upon her senses. He came with a final fusillade of thrusts and ended with his teeth at her throat, scraping her carotid artery as his seed dripped out of her body and seeped into the sheets.

He moved onto his back, and she rolled with him, draping one sticky leg over his and resting her cheek upon his sweat-dampened chest. He held her to him again, and this time, as she surrendered to sleep, she clearly heard him say, 'I'm sorry.'

She did not leave his rooms that weekend. He professed concern over her seizure-like episode and watched over her like a hawk, insisting upon applying some of the Enchanted Mistletoe crème she had given him for Christmas to soothe the soreness of her muscles. Winky was given instructions to excuse Hermione to any visitors for the reason of illness, and Harry and Ron were told privately by the headmaster that Hermione had suffered a bad turn and was being looked after by Professor Snape for the weekend.

They ate and slept and read and had sex, with her professor initiating the intimacy as often as Hermione did. She did not question him about it, but accepted every attention, responded to every overture, whether he was offering pleasure, conversation, a muscle massage, or just a hot cuppa – and revelled in the return of their easy camaraderie.

When he took her book from her hands and pressed her back on the sofa with demanding kisses – or invaded the bath as she rose from the tub, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her off to his bed – he perpetrated such acts of erotic intimacy upon her person that it left her in a state both spellbound and speechless. He touched and tasted every inch of her skin, every crevice of her body, lavishing such intense concentration upon these acts of sex that she soon came to know she was experiencing carnal contrition: He could not look her in the face and say sorry, but he could make amends with such mind-numbing sensuality that she would have forgiven him anything.

On Monday morning, Hermione Flooed back to her room to shower and dress for the day. She met the boys in the common room, assured them she was fine, and the three of them headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

As she came down the stairs into the Entrance Hall, her step light and a smile upon her face, she saw Viktor, who was standing with Professor Dumbledore, conversing. He looked up and caught her eye, and a grin spread over his face. He strode across the floor, under the eyes of the headmaster, Harry and Ron, and the loiterers on the stairway coming up from the dungeons, and plucked her off the staircase, spinning her around and making her giggle with glee.

'Put me down, silly!' she cried.

Viktor did let her down, smirking unrepentantly, but it was not until Hermione stood on her own feet that she looked past Viktor to see Professor Snape standing at the top of the dungeon staircase, looking as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a Hippogriff. Feeling suddenly wrong-footed, Hermione stepped past Viktor, a conciliatory hand held out before her, completely unmindful of the other people moving through the Entrance Hall. Surely he didn't think she was flirting with Viktor? Or that she liked Viktor better than she did him?

Severus Snape turned his back on her in a swirl of black robes and disappeared back down to the dungeons. Hermione began to hurry after him, but she was restrained by a hand upon her arm. Wrenching away, she turned to argue, only to find Albus Dumbledore looking down at her with compassionate eyes.

'Let him go for now, my dear,' the headmaster murmured, looking after the Potions master with undisguised concern.