Chapter 15: Regression

The Love You Take

Chapter 15: Regression

Severus hurtled down the staircase to the dungeons, fleeing like a coward from the sight of the girl flinging herself into the arms of the Bulgarian. He found it difficult to breathe, as if a rogue Bludger had slammed into his mid-section. How, after the time they had spent together over the weekend, could the wanton flounce from his arms to those of a rival? Had she no proper feeling at all?

No – and neither did she, a treacherous voice reminded him. She – the green-eyed witch, Lily Evans, had begun behaving in the same way at roughly the same age, throwing herself at James-fucking-Potter, uncaring of who might witness her reckless behaviour. Evans had not gone from his arms to Potter's, strictly speaking – he, Severus, had never had the privilege of holding Evans in his arms as he had done with Hermione – but the betrayal had felt every bit as acute as this current gaping wound from which he bled ... metaphorically speaking.

Folly! Idiocy!

He gripped his rowan wood wand tightly as he stormed through the dungeon corridors, wishing very much that he had a target at which to cast – how he would delight in destroying something now! All of the roiling emotion was like acid in his veins, and his usual reserve was eluding him. What was it about his association with that slip of a girl – a mere child! – which deprived him of his composure?

Gaining his rooms, he closed and warded the door behind him, breathing hard, striving for mastery of his emotions. He wanted to lay hands upon Viktor Krum and hurt him – he wanted to hit him with a Cruciatus Curse and watch him writhe upon the floor – he wanted to hurl him from the castle and tell him never to return.

And the girl! He wanted to make her sorry – make her feel as he felt – to hurt her –

'Severus?'

He froze as if he had been caught in wrong-doing and looked anxiously over his shoulder – but he was alone in his sitting room. It was the green glow of the Floo which drew him to the fireplace, wherein the head of Albus Dumbledore floated.

'Headmaster?' Severus managed, feeling his mask fall into place; now, he presented an unreadable face to his employer.

'I would like to speak with you,' Dumbledore said neutrally. 'Could you come to my office, please?'

Severus quailed internally; he was not yet in full control of his inner turmoil, and he had no wish to demonstrate this fact to Albus Dumbledore.

'Now, Severus,' the headmaster said implacably.

Severus took a deep breath and stepped into the Floo, whirling to the headmaster's office, where Dumbledore waited, standing before his desk in purple robes embroidered with stars and moons. Severus stepped out onto the hearth rug, keeping his eyes averted from the old man's piercing blue gaze as he brushed ash from his robes.

'Please sit down,' Dumbledore said, his manner warmer now that he had got his way.

Severus crossed his arms over his chest, his feet braced, as if for battle. 'I'll stand,' he replied curtly.

Dumbledore sighed and turned to walk behind his desk and seat himself. 'It need not be a contest of wills, Severus,' he said wryly.

'I have duties to perform, Headmaster,' the Potions master snapped irritably.

'Do you?' Dumbledore asked mildly. 'But you decided not to eat this morning – never a good choice on a busy day.'

Severus gritted his teeth. 'I scarcely see how my personal habits are any of your business,' he ground out.

Dumbledore rested his elbows on the highly-polished surface of his desk and steepled his fingers, watching Severus closely. 'I'm afraid we disagree,' he said, sounding a touch sad. 'I gave you a charge, Severus – a very serious one – and there seems to be a ... problem.'

Severus raised his chin, an action which caused Dumbledore some amusement, judging by the way the old wizard's infernal eyes began to twinkle.

'I am aware of no problems with any of the many charges you have given me,' he snapped.

Dumbledore cocked his head to one side. 'But I really cannot have my Potions master attacking the guest flying instructor, Severus.'

Severus felt his fragile control deteriorate further. 'No!' he shouted, advancing on the old man. 'But you have no problem with that Bulgarian groping the Head Girl in public!'

Dumbledore watched the advancing wizard with undisturbed equanimity. When Severus stopped at the edge of the desk, glaring down at Dumbledore with murderous rage, the old wizard gave him an affectionate, knowing smile.

'Now, now,' he said soothingly, opening his desk drawer and removing a bottle, 'doesn't that feel better?'

With a howl of frustration, Severus dropped into his usual chair before Dumbledore's desk. 'It's a miracle I've never killed you, old man,' he bellowed, his hands closing convulsively over the lank black hair hanging on either side of his face.

Amusement crinkled Dumbledore's eyes as he poured a shot of something smelling suspiciously like cognac into a waiting teacup and pushed it at Severus. 'Not at all, Severus – you care for me far too much to kill me.'

Severus gave a loud, derisive snort and took up the teacup, taking a healthy sip. 'When did you begin encouraging your teachers to drink before the sun is over the yardarm?' he asked snidely, calm enough now to eye his employer over the rim of the non-tea-bearing cup.

'Oh, I would never do that,' Dumbledore said, smiling as he relaxed back into his chair. 'But you're not going to enter the classroom today, Severus.'

Severus replaced the teacup on the desktop. 'And who the devil is going to take my lessons?' he demanded. 'I assure you, I will not attempt mayhem upon the students,' he added a bit guiltily. It was, after all, his job to teach Potions – not to storm about his superior's office, threatening bodily harm.

Dumbledore reached out one long arm and nudged the teacup once more toward Severus. 'You, dear boy, are going to take this bottle of cognac and the novel of your choice, and you are going to stay in your rooms and attain some measure of self-possession before you go into the classroom again.'

Severus dropped his eyes to the toes of his boots. 'That should not be necessary, Headmaster,' he said quietly.

'Who is to say what ought to be necessary in these circumstances, Severus?' Dumbledore said musingly. 'I've never before encountered a situation which required one of my teachers to be constantly sexually intimate with a student without giving any suspicion of his activities to others.'

Severus raised his eyes again to his employer's face at this calm statement of fact. 'It's hell,' he said flatly.

Dumbledore gazed at him intently for a moment before saying in a softly chiding voice, 'Occluding so industriously, Severus? One might think you were trying to hide something from me.'

Severus felt himself flush, but he did not look away. 'Nothing, save my own personal thoughts, Headmaster.'

Dumbledore pursed his lips and continued to study Severus' face. 'Has it occurred to you that she might be fond of you?'

'No,' he responded tersely.

'Yet,' Dumbledore continued, 'when I saw you dancing with her at the Valentine's Day Ball ...'

Severus' lips thinned. 'No,' he repeated more loudly. 'And she should not be encouraged to be –' his face twisted into a scowl of distaste, 'fond of me. The very idea is repugnant!'

The headmaster's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. 'I don't see that, Severus,' he said. 'When she has left school, there is no impediment to prevent your relationship – and she is less than four months from sitting her N.E.W.T.s as it is.'

'Any feeling she has for me is the product of this damned curse,' Severus said insistently. 'She would never have seen me as anything but her teacher if she had never been cursed – there is no basis for affection betwixt us.'

Dumbledore tilted his head to one side, his eyes staring off as if seeing into the future. 'I don't know about that, Severus,' he said. 'She's clever, brave, book-loving – and rather fond of the under-appreciated members of wizarding society.' He directed a gently teasing smile at the younger man. 'I think you two would make a good pair.'

Severus' lip curled. 'I think I'm going to vomit,' he said nastily, glaring until the smile left the old man's face. 'Do not speak of things about which you know nothing.'

Dumbledore's brow knit. 'It's been twenty years, you know, Severus. Things change.' He cast a curious look to the younger man. 'Perhaps it's time for another look at the Mirror,' he said. 'You might be surprised by what you see.'

Severus stood quickly, rage igniting in his body again so quickly that when he spoke, it sounded as if he'd been running. 'I will never look in the bloody Mirror again as long as I live!' he gasped.

Dumbledore rose as well, remorse on his face. 'I'm sorry,' he murmured, coming from behind the desk with the bottle in his hands.

Severus stared at him, his breath coming in short pants, his eyes gazing over Dumbledore's shoulder. In a sickening moment of clarity, he saw it all again.

He had gone directly from the Mirror to her – he had seen them together so clearly; it had to be true, didn't it? When she had refused to speak to him, he had held her by her shoulders to plead with her – he hadn't meant to do it, but he had been looking into her emerald eyes, and it had been so easy to see into her mind ... to see the distaste turn to revulsion as he told her what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised ...

Dumbledore pressed the bottle into Severus' hands. 'Listen to me,' he said, and the tone of command was so clear that Severus pushed the painful memory away and obeyed. 'Your nerves are fraught. You must gain control of yourself again.'

Severus nodded bleakly.

Dumbledore pressed on. 'You cannot allow it to be seen that you are involved with Hermione. It would only take one gossiping student sending an owl home to bring the matter before the school governors – we cannot allow that to happen.'

Severus nodded again, humiliation sour in his belly. He knew these things – knew them! Dumbledore ought not to have to explain things to him as if he was stupid. What was wrong with him?

The old man's hands settled on Severus' shoulders, and the two wizards looked into each other's eyes. 'The first night I brought her to you,' Dumbledore murmured, 'I told you it would be necessary to see to her emotional needs as well as the physical demands of the curse. You cannot put emotional distance between you, Severus.' The blue eyes were soft with pity. 'If you don't care for her, for all of her needs, she will be forced to seek emotional solace elsewhere, and we simply cannot risk that. Every plan we have worked for hangs in the balance, and one wrong step can destroy your usefulness against Tom forever.'

Dumbledore dropped his hands and stepped back from Severus. 'Off with you, now,' he said more briskly. 'I will take your lessons today and tomorrow – or for as long as you need. Take some time to yourself, Severus. I'll let the staff know you're under the weather, and I'll check in with you periodically.'

Severus tucked the bottle into the pocket of his robes. 'Yes, Headmaster,' he said. 'I will do as you wish.' Turning with what little dignity he could muster, he threw the Floo powder into the fire and returned to his rooms.

She was later than usual coming to him that afternoon; she had skipped visiting him at lunch, and now it was nearing twilight, close to the dinner hour. She was bundled in what appeared to be no fewer than three jumpers, topped by a Muggle-style coat. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. It angered him to know that she would rather be cold than wear the cloak he had given her for Christmas – the custom-tailored wizard-made cloak for which he had personally chosen the wool, the Acromantula silk lining, and the golden Gryphon-head clasp – but he had sworn to himself he would not quarrel with her, so he kept silent.

He knew from her movements that she was not yet in acute need; she had come to his rooms in anticipation of needing his services later – so she was seeking his company, now. The notion pleased him.

She removed the coat and hung it on a peg, then pulled the bulkiest of the jumpers over her head and hung it away, as well. She was left wearing a snug-fitting cranberry red jumper, embroidered all over with a curious object. 'What is that?' he asked.

Hermione glanced down at herself. 'A jumper,' she replied.

He scowled. 'I can see that – what is the sigil sewn all over it?'

She flushed. 'It's a Basilisk,' she said. 'Mrs Weasley embroiders the sweaters she gives us for Christmas – Harry gets Snitches, I usually get books – but this one has the Basilisk.'

Severus shook his head. 'That woman is daft,' he muttered. 'You nearly get killed by the creature and she thinks you want to wear a garment covered with its likeness?'

Hermione laughed, a light sound, reminiscent of the tinkling of bells. 'At least it's warm,' she said, sitting down on the sofa and pouring herself a cup of tea from the service set upon the low table.

'What were you doing outside?' he asked, taking care to keep his tone casual.

'I was watching Quidditch practice,' she replied, 'then listening to Viktor talking to the team about tactics.' She wrinkled her nose and took a biscuit to go with her tea. 'It was boring.'

Severus bristled inwardly at the mention of the Bulgarian. 'Let that be a lesson to you,' he murmured lightly, reminding himself that she was with him now, and that was good enough.

'Too right,' Hermione agreed. 'What have you been up to, all day?'

Severus nodded to the book on the table at his elbow. 'Reading and relaxing.'

Hermione's eyebrows rose. 'I don't believe I've ever heard you admit to relaxing,' she teased.

He narrowed his eyes at her but did not snipe. Her gaze settled on his book.

'You're reading Merlin et Nimüe,' she said. She rose and came to take the book into her hands. 'I don't know why I adore this story so.'

He sipped his tea and watched her surreptitiously through the curtain of his hair. 'What's not to adore?' he said snidely. 'Young witch steals older wizard's magic, seals him in a cave, and runs away with her young lover.'

Hermione gaped down at him. 'That's not part of the story!' she objected. There's nothing about a lover!'

He struggled with himself but to no avail; he could not overcome this particular bugaboo. His pride still stung from seeing her laughing down into Krum's face. He raised his eyes to hers and let her see the full force of his sneer as he said, 'That particular telling of the tale does not include Nimüe's lover, but that does not mean he did not exist. When you are as old as I, you will know the world revolves around power, sex and the opportunity to obtain, use, and abuse them. Love does not exist.'

She quite literally staggered back a step from him, the book falling from her fingers. Her eyes were very wide; her lips were formed in a perfect 'o', as if she was surprised. 'Why do I have to be in this with you?' she whispered pathetically. 'You hate me – you hate what we do – you hate everything about life. I don't know how you can bear to exist.'

Bugger fucking hell! he thought, looking away from her. You couldn't keep your bloody mouth shut – you had to set her off again...

'Spare me the dramatics, Miss Granger,' he said aloud, striving for a bored tone. 'Please pick up my book – and drink your tea; it's getting cold.'

But he was speaking to the air. The Floo glowed green, and she was gone.

An hour passed as he sat in his armchair, mechanically drinking cup after cup of tea. She would be back. She had to return ... it had been nearly ten hours since their last encounter. She was too sensitive. When had he ever minded his tongue in her presence?

Your behaviour with her has been very uneven, of late, the voice in his head commented.

'Sod off,' he said into the silence.

Against his agreement with Dumbledore, after a period of dithering, he went to the Great Hall for dinner. He would see her there – surely, he could manufacture a reason to pass behind her seat and speak to her. It was his duty to look after her, not to drive her away with his unguarded utterances.

He swept into the cavernous room, making a quick survey of the Gryffindor table – but she was not there. All her little friends, including the Gryffindor Quidditch team, were present, but she was absent. Doing an abrupt about-face, he left the Great Hall, opting for a patrol of the castle corridors. He would not go to Gryffindor Tower to find her, but he might stumble over her, wandering about the castle when she ought to be ...

Krum.

All the Bulgarian's protégés had been present amongst the Gryffindors, but Viktor Krum had been conspicuous by his absence. Was she with him? With Krum, when she ought to be naked and wanton in a certain dungeon bedroom?

Jealousy ripped through his body with nausea-inducing intensity, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. Dear Merlin, he had not suffered such agonies of green-eyed insanity since he was at school. Involuntarily, his right arm wrapped across his torso in an unconscious protective gesture, whilst his left hand clamped upon his wand, now unsheathed and in the pocket of his cloak. Image after image flashed through his mind, each more horrific than the last. Hermione, astride a lover, her back arched in pleasure as she moved over the body of a man too powerfully-built to be Severus ... Hermione, transported in orgasm, gasping a name which was not his ... Hermione, sated and sleepy, her cheek upon a chest too densely-furred to be his, encircled by an arm bulging with biceps too brawny to belong to anyone save Viktor Krum.

Stopping at a window, he sagged into the embrasure, staring out into the winter dark. Uncertainty shimmered through him like unwelcome cold flashes. Where was she? Why did she not come to him? Why did she not touch her wand to the fake Galleon she carried and summon him to her, wherever she was?

Why was he spending hour after hour, day after day, fretting over the bushy-haired, limpid-eyed know-it-all?

His hands clenched into fists upon the rough stone window ledge. He would not make such a fool of himself over a mere female. She was nothing to him, no more than any of the other students in his charge, no more than any of the other jobs foisted upon him by Albus-bloody-Dumbledore.

And he could prove it. He was not a cringing adolescent – he was a man. He was a brave man; even Dumbledore, whose praise seemed saved for Potter, admitted that Severus was courageous. And a brave man had nothing to fear from knowing his heart's desire.

He pushed away from the window, consciously straightening his back and squaring his shoulders before sweeping through the virtually deserted castle corridors, heading down and down into the dungeons.

Only he and the headmaster knew the current resting place of the Mirror of Erised – and he was in possession of the password which would give him access to knowledge of his heart's desire.

His lip curled in disdain. He had nothing to fear.

And in a darkened bedroom, floors and floors above the dungeon, an Unforgivable Curse was cast.

A/N: I know this is a brutal way to leave you, and I apologize. The next chapter is fully outlined, and I promise this particular brand of angst will be resolved by the end of it.

This chapter was beta-read by DeeMichelle and Keladry Lupin; it was Brit-picked by MagicAlly.

MagicAlly made the lovely suggestion of Severus' comment about drinking "before the sun is over the yardarm." This is an old British Royal Navy term, harking back to the days when the men drank beer and rum instead of water on long voyages. Wikipedia says, "the phrase seems to have originated in the north Atlantic, where, in summer, this would have typically been at about 11 a.m.. This was the time at which, by custom and rule, the first rum 'tot' of the day was issued to officers and men (the officers had their tots neat, while the men had theirs diluted with water), hence its connection with taking one's first alcoholic drink of the day."

And thanks, as always, to sshg316, cheerleader extraordinaire. Shug has y'all's best interests at heart; she took away my access to PSP until the chapter was complete.