Chapter Three: Waiting is the Hardest Part

Disclaimer: I got bored with my dollies and decided to play with J.K.'s. I promise to put them back...eventually.

< 3- YOU-DON'T-KNOW-WHO

Chapter Three: Waiting is the Hardest Part

Moans could be heard softly from what he presumed was his bathroom.

How revolting.

Severus was in no way amused by his current situation. He was lying helpless in his own bed, in his own home, while being subjected to the most ridiculously stubborn and annoying teenagers he had come across since his years as a student.

He was still unable to decide whether or not death would have been a more formidable option, especially after his brief peek into the type of magic that was being used in an effort toward his revival. He didn't exactly have a firm grasp on all the particulars, but had gathered enough information from the brief observance of the ritual and the conversations overheard to regain some form of mental stability.

He had been able to piece together that the joint efforts of Granger, who was now lying in some sort of magically procured bed beside him, along with Potter and the youngest Weasley, who he could now hear becoming increasingly more intimate with one another in his bath, were what had allowed him his memories and hearing back. He was still absolutely helpless...it seemed that the know-it-all was having a more difficult time with the ancient magic she was using than she had hoped.

Some small part of him was grateful to the nosy chit for taking an active interest in assuring he received not only the utmost care in his condition, but the application of intelligence and research from the only living person that he felt had the ability to take on such a daunting, near-impossible task. The larger part of him, however, despised her for making such a fool of him, taking her precious friends and herself along for the mortifying ride.

He was a grown man, and it seemed he was essentially lying in an open grave of his own making. His shovel had been an intricate web of half-truths and lies, of seclusion and privacy. This realization was quite a blow to his ego.

He knew his wounded ego and his pride were what forced that part of him to despise her and her cohorts. He knew that it was silly and irrelevant, not only because of his current standing in the world, but everyone else's as well. It was just...

His pride was something he held very dear.

As a child and a young adult, his pride was constantly stripped away from him. His weaknesses and flaws were regularly exploited for the pleasure of his bastard of a father or for the entertainment of his peers. He grew into a man who relied upon his pride, upon his reputation, and upon his intelligence to earn the fear and respect of everyone who encountered him. So in a way, Severus valued his pride almost as much as he valued his life, for as a grown man, he could not see one without the other.

But he had to admit that this witch Granger was a force to be reckoned with. She was also a force, it seemed, that would enjoy a thoroughly good reckoning from her former Potion's master.

Severus smirked inwardly. He recalled that particular thought, the most enjoyable projected mental image of her tan, moist skin as she danced and chanted around his sickbed, around him. Her breasts had swayed, her hips (When did the girl get hips?) flared provocatively as they turned and gyrated in a fashion that caused him to think some rather inappropriate thoughts about his former pupil.

But what did she expect from him if she ever succeeded with her far-fetched plan? Did she expect him to open his eyes and sit upright, calling out her name with praise and longing seeping from every syllable? Did she fancy herself the next bloody Florence Nightingale? Was he to fall into a boneless heap, kissing her tiny little feet? Was he to profess his undying love and devotion to her brilliant self? Was she just becoming emotionally attached to him and his condition because of those damn memories he had let go? Did she believe him to be some sort of brooding turtle, hard and impenetrable outside yet soft and mushy inside?

And what was all nonsense about "again" earlier? Sweet dreams, love? He found it near impossible to believe she had been harboring romantic feelings for him during her tenure in school. He had made it his exclusive responsibility to be as cruel and demeaning to the Golden Trio as possible. Was she a masochist? Did she enjoy all of the degradation and belittling? What the hell was she going on about, and why the hell couldn't he stop analyzing it?

He wished that he knew, wished that he could look into her eyes and unwrap her mind, layer-by-layer, memory-by-memory. But... he could never really look into Hermione's eyes and violate her mind. She really was doing so much for him. Potter as well. He had seen Ginny also, but where was the other annoying Weasley? Why was Hermione lying in his sleeping quarters, on a transfigured cot, instead of in another room, with Weasley or any another man? Why in his vicinity, why near him? It would seem as if she must genuinely care.

As the sound of Hermione's breathing steadied into a sleepy rhythm, the sound of those two brats in the bathroom rutting like wild pigs grew increasingly unhinged and shrill.

Harry Bloody Potter. Shagging a Weasley in his bathroom. His troublemaking father would have been so proud.

Hermione stirred slightly and muttered something incoherent in her sleep, and he wished that he could open his eyes and look at her. He'd always appreciated his sense of sight, the ability to visually decipher one's surroundings, but he had also known that he could never depend on his eyes alone. He was both smug and grateful that he had trained himself to use each of his physically given senses to their absolute fullest potential, for if he had an untrained ear, he would be going just as mad as he had been before he discovered his true predicament.

He heard Hermione give out a sleepy groan and turn to her side, turn towards him. He wanted to see her gentle, slumbering form. He wanted to see her blanket hugging against her delightfully nubile, curvy body. He wanted to watch her bosom rise and fall with each breath, he wanted to undress her with his eyes, etch her forever into his mind, just the way she was.

She had sounded... different. She had sounded like a woman. And she had looked like a woman. A goddess, even. Her magic had radiated power and wisdom far beyond her years, far beyond his belief of her capabilities. Through the war, through the flames, she had survived and grown into a beautiful, powerful woman.

And if there was one thing that Severus had always been attracted to, it was power. He had seen it in Lily, Lucius, Dumbledore, and Voldemort. And he had been taken in, for better or for worse, by every one of them. Would he allow himself to be taken in again, if he emerged from this prison? Would he gravitate towards another powerful force, towards another intense attraction?

Silly old man, he thought to himself. You're just as foolish as you ever were. Her power, was it? Not her tight little ass?

Severus again felt the urge to sneer. He was most definitely not a young buck anymore. He had lived through so much. He was surprised that he was still alive, if he was honest with himself. How had he survived Nagini's bite, anyway?

"Mmm..."

She was awakening. It would seem that the continuous cries of pleasure coming from his lavatory had not disturbed him alone.

"Mmm... whatstha... Harry...? Fucking Merlin..."

Severus would have smirked if he could have.

Fucking Weasley is more like it..., he thought to himself.

He could hear Hermione sit up abruptly and grumble several angry obscenities to herself. She walked purposefully over to the door and flung it open. A flood of piercing grunts and groans flew into the room, along with the ever-pleasant sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Lovely.

"HARRY POTTER! DID YOU DEFEAT VOLDEMORT WITH YOUR COCK? OR DID YOU FORGET HOW TO USE YOUR OTHER WAND NOW HE'S GONE?"

A sudden silence filled his home. And for the first time in many, many years, Severus Snape wanted to laugh. He wanted nothing more than to throw back his head and howl with unbridled mirth.