Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

She had missed nearly a week of classes; it was late in the afternoon on Thursday, and Hermione wanted nothing more than for Madam Pomfrey to discharge her from the Hospital Wing.

"I think I might go mad from boredom," Hermione complained.

"Madam Pomfrey said to rest."

"I know Gin, but I'm behind in my studies; what if I miss..."

"'Mione," Harry cut off his friend's near hysteric rant, "we tried to sneak your assignments in, but Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have it."

"Scolded us good," Ron said as he munched on a chocolate frog. "Said we hindered your healing." The redhead garbled, swallowing the confection. He concentrated on the chessboard in front of him, moved his rook, and waited for Harry to make his move.

"At least she's allowed us to visit," Ginny added, scratching through the latest Witch Weekly quiz.

"But only for an hour," the curly-haired girl huffed as a slight whine tinged her words.

"Which I believe is now up," the velvet timber of the Potion master's voice echoed from the doorway.

Three heads turned toward the direction of the dark wizard.

"Same time tomorrow?" Ginny questioned as she closed the magazine and set it on the bedside table.

Hermione nodded.

The three Gryffindors hurriedly edged past Professor Snape, epithets setting silent on their tongues. The youngest Weasley son's eyes narrowed defiantly as he dared a glance back at Hermione, waving a short goodbye.

She offered a small smile in reply.

Alone, Snape fully entered the room, measured steps bringing him closer to the young woman.

"Ten Ways to Tell if a Wizard is Interested," he snorted, an eyebrow arched as he browsed the magazine cover. "How, pray tell Miss Granger, does one tell if a boy is interested?" The question was rhetorical as he continued, "A box of Honeydukes' finest attached to a note of purple prose, or the not so subtle pulling of a pigtail?" His trademark smirk was in place.

"I would not know, sir, for a boy does not hold my fancy."

He snorted softly.

Hermione watched as he gracefully deposited himself in the chair closest to her sickbed. He was reaching into his robes; she hoped he wouldn't force her into taking any more potions. Between the Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep, she had had her fill.

"Not a potion, I assure you," he said as if reading her thoughts. He removed from the inner pocket shrunken quills, parchment, and books, which he set to rights with a quick flick of his wand.

"Your assignments," he explained.

Hermione's eyes lit up, her gaze hungrily coveting her schoolwork, eager at the prospect to cure her restlessness and to gain the knowledge held within the leather-bound tomes.

"To be completed under the strictest supervision, of course."

"Yes, I would hate to overexert myself," she agreed, shifting closer to Snape.

"Quill to parchment only; there will be no silly wand waving."

"No wand waving," she repeated as she angled her body ever closer.

"Theory and methodology; practical application will have to wait."

"Wait..." she breathed softly, relishing in his closeness as she coveted having him all for the moments so far and few between, greedily stolen and savored.

Professor Snape licked at his lips that were suddenly dry, his tongue tracing a moist and dewy trail along his fuller bottom lip.

Hermione watched enraptured, pupils dilating as she absorbed the innocuous, yet sensual action.

Snape shifted in his seat under her lust-filled scrutiny. During his visits, an agreement that the recently transpired events would remain tacit was unspoken between them.

*****************

"Professor Snape," the matron tutted her displeasure at the schoolwork and books sprawled across her patient's bed.

"Madam, I do not believe the headmaster himself can separate the know-it-all," he snorted, "from her studies, and besides it was at Professor McGonagall's insistence. So if issue is to be taken, fault is to be placed at her feet." Snape jested with Poppy without missing a beat.

"As it were, I am here to enlighten Miss Granger as to Headmaster Dumbledore's intentions concerning her well-being and recovery." He paused.

Hermione was perplexed; surely Dumbledore would not force her to stay in the infirmary for much longer.

"Headmaster Dumbledore has arranged for you to speak with a psychiatrist, a Squib, Dr. Agatha Morelay. She has an office in Muggle London."

Hermione's features turned ashen. "But, sir, I am fine, truly." She turned to Madam Pomfrey, imploring her to verify the claim.

The matron did not return her charge's gaze, but averted her eyes in answer.

"Sir," she said with an air of desperate pleading in her tone, "if my parents... I'll be withdrawn from Hogwarts."

Snape held up a hand to quiet her growing hysterics. "You are of age, are you not, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, sir," she responded.

"By that token, you are an adult, and informed consent of your parents need not be given, nor are they to be informed of your 'extracurricular activities' without your express permission."

Relief ebbed at the nervous tension coiling her body, tight, heart beating rapidly.

"I shall be your escort for these sessions." Snape's posture and tone belied a put upon task of which he was forced to suffer. "We will depart from Hogwarts on Mondays and Fridays at noon; your sessions have been scheduled for 1:00 PM. This schedule will remain in place until Dr. Morelay deems them no longer necessary."

"My first session is to be tomorrow then," Hermione stated matter-of-factly. "Sir, is there a possibility that my appointments can hold until next week?" She fiddled with the pages of the open Transfiguration text as she continued, "I've missed far too many classes, and surely my grades will start to suffer."

"Hand-waving, know-it-all swot," Snape muttered under his breath, the insult lacking in his usually acerbic bite. "I am afraid that is impossible as Madam Umbridge will be returning to Hogwarts to fulfill the C.O.U.R.T mandates. Fear not, though, your professors, myself included, will no doubt rejoice in this reprieve from your regurgitation of encyclopedic knowledge."

"I think that is enough excitement for one afternoon," Madam Pomfrey interjected, cutting a cross glare at Professor Snape for his deliberate taunting of Miss Granger. She conjured a tray of food as she said, "First dinner then a nip of Dreamless Sleep."

Hermione looked towards Professor Snape then back to the potion in Madam Pomfrey's hand.

"Poppy, I think perhaps Miss Granger can forego the potion lest we have a repeat performance of her uncontrolled magic."

The Gryffindor nodded hastily in agreement, eyeing the vial warily. "Please, no more potions."

Hesitantly, Madam Pomfrey nodded, wishing not to deplete what few healing potions she had left from Miss Granger's previous outburst. "Just in case then," she said as she set the bottle on the bedside table.

Snape stood, his voluminous robes whooshing in his wake as he glided to the doorway. "I shall be here to collect you, tomorrow at noon."

"Yes, sir."

***************

Hermione smiled to herself, glad to have been able to shower instead of using cleansing charms, and wear clothing that weren't Hogwarts-issue hospital garb. Feeling whimsical, she donned a comfortable pair of denims, a pale grey sweater, her worn trainers, and a Slytherin green scarf embellished with threads of silver.

Apprehension, though, weighed heavily upon her like a lead ball in the pit of her stomach.

"While I appreciate your choice of color, your housemates will believe you a turncoat," Snape said as he leaned against the doorframe, his posture nonchalant, one leg crossed over the other.

"Pity then that I cannot assure them that I am indeed donning Gryffindor red."

A predatory smirk graced his lips, a few quick flicks of his wand ensuring their privacy. "As I recall, you have a penchant for lace, white..." He pushed away from the door. "... Virginal."

Hermione clutched at her school robe, swallowing at the unabashed desire shown in her professor's perusal of her person, and finding herself hard-pressed to respond to his flirtation.

"And you?" she eked out with more assurance than she truly felt.

He made a show of slowly stalking her person, every circuit drawing closer, his robes barely brushing her body.

"When I am wont," he said as his breath warmed the base of her neck, wisps of fine black hair grazed the shell of her ear. "Black silk," he purred, "the sensation of the delicate material, cool against my heated flesh, like soft fingers gently caressing me to hardness..." He pushed away from her body as he continued, "... Growing damp, how the material clings; a warm mouth suckling me to completion."

Hermione was nearly panting with want, body flushed with heat, the Fealty prickling in her veins surely as the impending orgasm driving her to the brink of reason.

"I...I," she gasped, unable to articulate her need, her eyes tightly shut.

Snape was flush against her body, his oversized nose taking in a lungful of air. "I can smell you," he breathed, savoring the scent on his tongue, "musty and warm, damp and sticky." He chuckled at her whimpers. "How do you taste, I wonder: sweet like treacle, or bitter like the darkest of chocolate?" His nimble fingers made short work of the button and zipper of her jeans.

In her wantonness, Hermione fingers passed the barrier of her red cotton knickers. Dampness coated her fingers. "Yes, so sticky," she panted, pleasure mingling with pain as her clit throbbed with need.

"Touch... me..." she begged.

"No." Snape's voice was constricted with desire.

"Not enough," she whimpered, inserting a second finger. "Need more." She was rocking against her hand, keening in pleasure, and groaning in pain as the wounds from the Fealty began to open. Knitted flesh pulled, coming apart like the worn seams of a ragdoll.

He pulled her back toward him, his erection hard and pressing into her. Hermione rubbed against him, the friction scratching deliciously at the deep-seated ache within her.

Professor Snape's body moved in tandem, his breathing and pace quickened at her pleas. Her body jerkily convulsed, a guttural cry torn from her core, as she sank to her knees in pain-filled respite.

Professor Snape laid her gently on the bed; sweat drenched her skin as blood seeped through her shirt and down her wrist from the hand still buried between her thighs.

"Open your mouth," Snape ordered.

Hermione complied, her body warring between the intensity of her orgasm and searing pain enacted from the Fealty. She swallowed the Percocet he placed in her mouth.

"Open yours," she said, gingerly removing her hand that was coated with the remnants of her cum and blood. Lying on her back with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed and her jeans pushed down her thighs, she looked up at him standing above her. His hair was damp and sticking together in clumps to his face.

He brought the offered hand to his face, inhaling the scent. His tongue licked the creamy discharge from her fingers as his eyes closed to savor the tangy metallic flavor.

Hermione jerked away from him as spasms wracked her body; she breathed deeply trying to calm herself. "Am I treacle or chocolate?"

"You are an acquired taste that only the most discerning palate can truly appreciate."

Eyes still closed, she felt the flurry of magic around her.

"Madam Pomfrey is at the noon meal, and we've little more than half an hour for you to leave." His tone was clipped but not unkind. "I suggest you shower and cast a cleaning charm on your clothing, or have the elves launder them."

With great effort on her part, Hermione moved into a sitting position, her professor looking right as rain. The heat in his eyes was the only sign that he had partaken in anything out of the ordinary.

"Okay," she said, nodding.

"Are you in much pain?" A hint of regret held in his softly spoken words.

"Some." She saw no need to lie.

"For that I apologize, but your body was surging with magic, dangerous for any witch or wizard, especially one prone to fits of wandless outbursts."

"And there was not another option to alleviate this excess build up of magic?" she asked.

"Oh there was, but the conclusion would not have been so... mutually beneficial."

"And that option was?" Hermione asked, trying to focus on the conversation and not how Snape's voice became roughened by smug satisfaction.

"You could have jinxed or hexed me, but expulsion would leave such a nasty little blemish on a practically pristine academic record," he said, teasing her.

"And seeking less than scholarly pursuits with a professor is not grounds for expulsion?" Hermione playfully retorted.

"No, I daresay I would be carted off to Azkaban, if I survived the wrath of the Dark Lord and my brothers. You, if luck were on our side, would be shunned by your friends or perhaps even pitied," he paused, "at worst entertainment at a revel, and lady luck has never granted me a boon."

"Stop, you're being morbid." Uneasiness killed any levity that had existed.

"No, I am being a realist," Snape sighed, suddenly weary, "for fate shall destroy my life before she takes it. The cards have been dealt, Miss Granger; the 'when' is inevitable." He left the ward without another word.

*************

Hermione felt sick. She changed out of her clothing and into a hospital gown. "Millie," she called to the elf.

"Yes, Miss Hermione," the elf said as it blinked into the ward.

"I'm afraid I've made a mess of my clothing."

Saucer-like eyes lit up. "Millie cleans Miss Hermione clothes," the elf said as it took the bundle from her and popped out of the ward.

The Percocet had fully kicked in as Hermione languidly stepped under the warm spray of the shower head. The blood flow had stemmed to a slow trickle and was washed away in a pool of pink-colored suds.

Loath as she was to move, Hermione shut the faucets off and wrapped her hair and body up in towels. Her clothing, clean, lay folded in a neat pile on the countertop of the sink. Wiping the steam from the mirror, she examined the wound marring her breast. The flesh had begun slowly stitching itself back together, but it was now etched into another layer. She loosely wrapped gauze on the wounds before she dressed. Her hair, damp from the shower, had begun to dry in a frizzy halo of curls. Grabbing her discarded hair tie, Hermione wound the damp strands into a tight bun.

******************

When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Professor Snape chatting with Madam Pomfrey.

"Miss Granger, I see that you must be incapable of reading a clock, for we have nary fifteen minutes to Apparate to Muggle London for your appointment."

"My apologies, Professor Snape." Hermione followed behind him as they reached the Apparation point at the gates of Hogwarts. His hand was on her arm as they Disapparated with a crack.

*****************

Hermione and her Professor found themselves behind a two-story building in a littered and deserted alley.

"We are here." Severus let go of her arm, but not before their close proximity afforded her a strong whiff of cloying scented flowers and sachet.

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A/N: Big thanks to all my readers/reviewers and my beta, Lyn.