3

Winter in the castle has him cold to the marrow, and it's a shame mere physical comedy doesn't warm him; there's plenty of that in these hallowed halls. To wit, Ronald Weasley, bounding from a vacant classroom, a fierce flock of yellow birds in pursuit. Potter flaps and gibbers at them, his catching skills quite clearly limited to Quidditch. And while it would be sweet indeed to take points...make it ten per bird...for unauthorized familiars, Hermione is at the far end of the corridor, running as if from the Dark Lord himself. Severus follows her--

and Potter should have followed, Hermione's his friend. He should have slipped on that blasted cloak and pursued. Because if he had, the boy would know, and he has to see, he must. But he stands there gaping, letting silver thought turn to silver nothing. Pay attention, Potter. Confound it, boy. Another time, another place, Severus would have sworn he'd rather die then have the Chosen One see what follows, but he's dying now; he feels the poison's chill and Potter doesn't see yet, and if he doesn't see soon, there'll be no helping it and--

Severus follows her round a corner, down a staircase, and another, down the long hallway on the sixth floor, through a door.

"Hermione?"

"Go away. This is the girl's room."

He enters the washroom. She's bent over the sink, splashing her face. "I said, leave me alone," she snaps.

"Yes, you did, but professors are under no obligations to prefects."

She stands upright. "Professor!" The collar of her shirt is wet. She blushes. The color fills in the skin between tear tracks. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm always off crying in washrooms." She flashes that wretched like-me-like-me-oh-please-like-me smile.

"Are you unwell?"

"No. Not as easy as that."

"These are hard times." Such a wishy platitude. Fornicating Founders, he sounds like Albus.

"It's not the times, it's...gah!" She kicks, furious, at the wall. Again and again. "It never ends, never. There's always another book or another spell or person or a brand new looming disaster to factor in. Eighteen going on eighty and I'm never going to have any chance for a...a life." She kicks the wall once more, then winces. "And now I've hurt my goddamn toe." She sighs and leans against the wall. It doesn't give way or hurl her across the room, as some crankier spots in the castle might after being so thoroughly abused. "To top it off, I've made a resounding fool of myself in front of you. How many points is it going to be?"

"No points. These are hard times. If you have to explode, explode."

There it is, the true smile. "I never imagined I'd hear my Potions master advocating explosions."

"It's Defense now."

"Explosions there are no good either. I like it when you smile," she says. He hadn't realized he was.

"I suppose I have reason. There is good news," he says. "I was coming to tell you."

"To the girls' bathroom?"

"I intended to wait until after class, but this is where I found you."

"What news?"

"I've completed the Weasley-based potion. The Headmaster thinks, and I agree, that we shouldn't advertise its existence. It's far better for us at this point to be underestimated. But the breakthrough was yours; I thought it right you be told."

"Thank you. It really works?"

"If administered quickly, before the throat seizes up. Quite extraordinary, really. I know I mean to carry it with me at all times. The others will too, once I finish this next batch... The brewing makes Wolfsbane look like Pepper-up. But after the war... This is important work. It could lead to a whole new sub-field. And I want you to know that, when this is published, you'll have contributing credit. I'll have to change the potion's name first; I can't abide the idea of linking my own with 'the Weasley-based potion.' I think Snakecure..."

She flits towards him. Her lips are on his, the barest flutter.

"...Serum is a bit obvious, but will do if..."

Her lips again. Twice as warm as when he dreamed. Hermione is small, so small. She has to rise on tiptoe to reach him.

"Hermione. If you wish to thank me, thank me." She takes her tea with honey. He can taste it on her lips. "But this conduct is inappropriate."

"I'm not thanking you," she says, "I'm believing you." She is still on tiptoes. He inhales what she exhales. All the air in the world belongs to them.

"What nonsense is this?"

"I trust you. When you say there will be an after I believe there will be."

He waits. She waits.

"Say it again," he says.

"I trust you."

"No. The rest of it."

"There's going to be an after."

He darts down to fully claim her lips, her tongue. A few fast steps and she's back against the wall, mewling with pleasure. She leans into him and her hands are inside his shirt, and he had no idea how cool his skin was, how chilled, before Hermione was here and touching him. His hands work fast to free her from her blouse. Nothing has ever been as fragile as the line of her neck. He can see her pulse in it and he bites there. She laughs, a rich, slow, merry sound out of pace with their frantic undressing. Her hand undoes his trousers; his peels away her knickers. She grinds against his palm and they melt together down the wall. He gathers her into his lap, facing him, and his mouth is on her lips, her forehead, her cheeks where he can still taste salt. She wriggles against him and moans that it's hard, so hard, and he pulls her to him because he will never have enough of her skin. They kiss once more and her hands are in his hair, down his chest, on his cock, and she bites small bites on his shoulder. Her breasts are just right for his hands, and she shivers and throws back her head when he strokes and squeezes and tongues the flesh. Only when she picks up her discarded wand and passes it over her abdomen to cast a husky-voiced charm against conception is he fully sure this is no dream.

He asks, "Do you want this?"

And she says, "I do."

He moans when she says it.

And she says it again. "I do. I do."

She is ready for him and he thrusts in and Hermione keeps saying it, "I do, I do, I do." This is no dream. She is here and he's inside her and it's slick and he belongs; he's supposed to be here. It's clear from how he fits, right and full and hard; it's natural as the stone inside a plum. Her voice in his ear, how she wants this, "I do, I do, I do, I do." He thrusts up; she gasps and gyrates. He pulls her close to him, head to his heart.

Severus knows he's been a cold man all his life. Bitter and envious and even cruel. He will be that man again, he knows, maybe even the instant they're done here. But right now, warm and wild and moving inside her, it's not strange at all that he cherishes her all the more for knowing she's lived her whole life cherished, brilliant daughter, beloved friend. He can feel the beating of his own heart, there, beneath the skin. It dictates the rhythm of his thrusting, faster and faster. Sometime in all of this, her "I do, I do, I do," has become "I am, I am, I am." The sound of it drives him harder, faster, pounding until she comes, gasping and writhing between an I and an am. He thinks: she is, she is and no incantation has ever had so much power. He spills into her, grateful, for the first time in years, for the simple fact of existence.

Until the reality of that existence reasserts itself; cold tile beneath his arse and a crick in his neck. He's just had...and thoroughly...a student on the floor of the washroom, where anybody might have caught them. Caught him. Going at it like a full moon on Mayday. Such blood thrumming madness; there's a reason one letter only separates Eros from Eris. Hermione's lips are chapped; it's winter. He'd forgotten for a moment. He'd like to kiss her once more; he'd like to wring sighs from those lips, moans, his name, hell, even a how-dare-you-Professor-what-on-earth-do-you-think-you're-doing? Anything, so long as it's loud enough to draw someone, anyone, to this room. A wandering second year. Minerva. Potter. Argus or his horrid cat. This is Myrtle's bathroom; where the hell is that spying specter? If he's caught there'll be no sidestepping the Governors' wrath, no denying the flagrant disregard of the school charter, not to mention basic morality. The Headmaster will have no choice. Severus will be canned for a letch. Drummed out of the castle. Azkaban or exile; it doesn't matter so long as he's too far from the grounds to honor his mentor's suicidal request.

Hermione's expression is wild, desperate; it may well mirror his own. She kisses him. It's gentle. From the look in her eyes, he expected something fiercer. "Don't worry," she whispers.

He cannot speak of it. "I won't," he says.

"I'll never tell, Professor. I swear." More kisses. Lips, throat, eyelids. Her tongue beneath his tongue, like the coin it costs to cross the Styx.

"Hermione." Where his lips first met her neck, the skin is starting to purple. His fingers will stay warm now, even in the chill of the dungeons, just remembering the weight of her breasts.

"I wouldn't want to tell, anyhow. I want to keep this for myself."

For myself, she says, not to. It makes a difference, and his mouth is on hers once more and maybe someone will come, maybe someone will hear...

AN: Eros and Eris are the Greek God of Love and Lust and Goddess of Chaos and Discord, respectively. The River Styx, in Greek Mythology, is the boundary between living earth and the realm of the dead. Proper burial required a coin be placed beneath the tongue (or over the eyes) so that the deceased could pay for passage across the water.

Thanks to all who reviewed and all who ("Imperio!" says madqueenmab) are going to review!

The characters aren't mine. The concept is not mine. If you think any of this is mine, you belong in St. Mungo's, which is also not mine.