Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

She squeezed her eyes shut willing away the pain; tiny pinpricks of light flashed behind her lids. She flinched as she heard glass shattering in the distance. Tentatively, with measured breaths, she unfurled her body and lay upon her back, the hardwood cold and biting. Hermione exhaled, opening her eyes to the flurry of dust motes floating about her body.

She let her head loll to the right, watching as black dragon-hide boots paced in what she presumed to be the kitchen based upon slamming of cabinet doors and the dinnerware shattering from the force of impact against the wall. A litany of profanity issued from her professor’s thin lips every couple of steps.

Hermione hesitantly rubbed the tender flesh of her neck. There would be bruises. His mark upon her body, the bloodlust of his possessive claim; she breathed in dust, mildew, his ire, his fear, and his love, singular in its abandon.

He ceased in his circuit of the kitchen.

Brown eyes stalked the stationary figure from toe to head. Snape’s lithe form stood in the entryway, the expensiveness of his boots in contrast to the cheap, warped linoleum covering the floor.

An involuntary tremor shuddered through her body, his blackness creeping silently upon her, crawling under her flesh to invade her soul.

Snape slumped to the floor with legs outstretched and head resting against the archway.

A physical distance of feet separated their bodies.

Hermione’s fingers caressed the imprints of his digits. A hum of contentment followed, and her body arched from the wood floor.

“I can still feel you upon me,” she whispered, hoarse. “I ache for your burden.” Hermione craved his ire.

“And the claim at your feet? Did Tuesday or Thursday come to court?” his rich baritone queried.

“I am your child,” Hermione answered, remembering the nursery rhyme learned in primary school.

The sharp inhalation belied the stoic and practiced blankness that normally emanated from the Potions master.

Hermione pushed up to rest on her elbows before completely rising to sit cross-legged before him. If she dared reach out, she would be able to touch him.

His gaze fell to the slender column of her neck, marred with ugly red and darkening purple impressions. He recoiled in disgust at the violence of his actions and the acceptance he felt radiating from her.

She edged closer to him, encouraged by his inaction, though she felt his eyes trace her movements. She crawled up the length of his body to straddle him, her thighs on either side of his slim hips, effectively sandwiching him between the wall and her body.

“I forgive you,” she said, for the last time hanging between them unspoken.

She leaned in and he flinched as she placed a kiss upon his forehead. Her body jerked in spasm, Hermione gritted her teeth and brought her lips to his in a chaste kiss as another spasm wracked her body.

Snape grasped her forearms to steady her, and he watched as rivets of blood trickled from her wounds.

“Why?” he pleaded.

“Worth it,” she gasped, sagging against him, boneless.

“You, my dear, would be the lone dissenting opinion,” he said mockingly with no real bite behind his words. Gingerly, he eased the girl from his lap and set her beside him.

A comfortable silence settled between them that was shattered by the mantle clock chiming the hour.

“We ought to be heading back,” he said.

“But not yet?” Hermione asked.

“No, no yet,” Snape answered.

No, definitely not yet, for he savored these far and few in-between moments as one would a prized vintage. He catalogued every exchange, her expressions, their intimacies, her scent and the subtle change in the notes when her arousal peaked. He coveted her articulations of devotion and love, though tempered they might be, from one’s first taste of childhood infatuated desire.

Snape longed for her innocence, craved the corruption her purity would wrought upon his body, for surely her goodness would fracture his being completely, and he would lap eagerly for every stray morsel of her affection damning his soul further to the bowels of hell.

“You’ve gone,” Hermione murmured, her trainer nudging his leg.

I will, he thought, but distractedly answered, “Yes,” as he gathered himself to rise, his joints popping, bones weary, as if the past hour aged him decades past his thirty-seven years.

Hermione followed suit, unease settling upon her as he avoided her stare.

“Severus,” she said, broken, “you are a good man.”

He arched an eyebrow in challenge, snorting in disdain. A man worth his salt never laid a hand upon a woman. The image of his father drifted to the forefront of his mind.

He was so lost in his memories and self-loathing that he didn’t feel the small hand reach into his pants pocket and filch his rosary.

“A good man,” she repeated with hardened conviction as if all the proof needed was clutched in her hand.

“Fairy tales,” he dismissed, glaring down at her.

She shrugged, handing him back the beads. Snape shoved them back in his pocket; if she noticed the dry, crusted blood on the crucifix, she didn’t let on.

They stared at one another, each unwilling to make the first move in this battle of wills, each unwilling to return to the supposed normalcy of their lives.

She reached a hand out towards him, wanting to smooth his hair away from his face, but she pulled back, letting whatever was between them pass.

“I’m ready,” Hermione said.

With a pop, they Disapparated from his childhood home to the gates of Hogwarts.

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A/N: Thank you to all my readers/reviewers and my beta Lyn.