The tiresome Saturday limped along, lunch arriving mercifully none too soon. After eating alone in the Great Hall, Hermione retreated to her dorm room, her one desire to read until she fell blissfully asleep in her four poster. That was, until her roommates spilled in, discussing schemes intended for mature audiences only. I'm happy to review last night's planning session with all with you to make sure you remember who you've been assigned to shag in case it's slipped your vacuous minds.
"Let's meet back here in the room at, say, 1?" said Deryn, looking to her cohorts for agreement.
"Better make it closer to 2," Breen replied with a devious smile. "Ian's been needy lately."
Hearing her roommates plot to regroup later to share the night's exploits sent Hermione diving for rucksack to escape the current—and pending—sordid discussions and retreat to the safety of her favourite table in the Divination section.
As she settled into the table stationed in the library's back corner, she found herself restless, irritable, and bored. Becoming more and more annoyed just thinking about her roommates waking her up around 2 a.m., she came to a decision. Well, I'm going to take Professor Snape up on his offer. I can stay in his library until they finish swapping this evening's stories and then go back to the dorm and sleep around 3. He did invite me, after all. She gathered the books she had unpacked. Actually, it was nice to have a place to go on a Saturday night, even if it was to a private library that very likely sported no windows.
Not certain why, she returned to her dorm room to replace her school robes with a jumper and denims before heading downstairs. She checked her hair for the zillionth time in the mirror. It's not like he'll notice my hair. I'm not going to see him, really—I'm going to use his library.
As she meandered carefully down the stairs to the dungeon, she began to doubt herself. Did Professor Snape truly think she would take him up on his offer of refuge? Did he really want her there? She found herself at his door before she realized it. Smoothing her hair, Hermione took a deep breath, and knocked sharply.
No one stirred inside. For a moment, she thought he wasn't there. Perhaps he was already asleep? Throwing back Firewiskys at Hog's Head? Enjoying titillating conversation over wine with another former Death Eater? Entertaining a stunning red-haired witch in the depth of his private chambers?
The heavy wooden door creaked open. "Ah, Miss Granger," he said in a silky as sin voice as if he were expecting her. She tried her best not to gape. Before her was the exact image of him from her dream: long sleeved white button down dress shirt, finely tailored black dress slacks, exquisite black dress shoes. He appeared…taller than she had ever remembered. Leaner. Handsome. But seeing him without his frock coat seemed…indecent. Decadent. She felt her face flush.
Hermione swallowed hard and struggled to speak. "Sir…" She swallowed again. "Sir, I wonder if you might allow me to use your library this evening. Sir."
"Of course." He said in a silky voice that should have been illegal, igniting the space between her thighs in ways it had never been before. Her jaw began to ache; she fought the urge to throw her arms around him and kiss him deeply—as she usually did. What? He opened his door wide for her enter.
"I thought perhaps it was too late to come, sir."
"It's never too late to…come, Miss Granger," he replied, a dangerous glitter in his black eyes. Did he just...? No. He seemed to make a concerted effort to pull on impersonal pleasantries, cleared his throat, and changed his tone. "I don't sleep well or often, Miss Granger," he said evenly. He turned to lead the way and she followed. Even though the dungeon afforded no windows, his chambers were unexpectedly open and airy. "Through here."
The hallway eventually opened up into an expansive library, lined floor to ceiling with books of every subject imaginable. Her mouth fell open. Hermione brushed a row of leather tomes tenderly with the tips of her fingers as she wandered into the room. The endless books, the smell of parchment, the fire, the leather chairs…she was certain she had died and been caught up in paradise.
"Professor, this is quite an impressive collection," she said reverently.
He raised an imperious eyebrow. "Thank you, Miss Granger."
He walked to a mahogany sideboard and poured himself a drink from a heavy cut crystal decanter. "I suppose I should refrain from offering you a brandy, Miss Granger, even though you are of age," he said sardonically as he took a large swallow and allowed himself to sink into an exquisite leather chair, locking his intense, obsidian gaze on her as she roamed the room. "I can hardly imagine how it would appear if a student were discovered in my chambers after hours muddled with drink." She saw the edges of his lips begin to curl, but she didn't know if it were in a sneer or a smile.
So much for the impersonal pleasantries from a few moments ago—they had given way to a man who looked like he might eat her alive. As she wandered around the room, he didn't take his infinitely dark eyes off her. This man was not the Professor Snape she knew; this was the man in her dream. Panic seized her. Shit. She'd forgotten about his talent. Had he used Legilimency to see her memories? Could he see her dream of him?
She forced herself not to think about his gift and focus instead on exploring the spacious library: the neat pile of parchment patiently waiting to be graded on a mahogany desk that matched the sideboard; the Persian carpet on the floor—authentic, if she guessed correctly; the intricate tapestries masking the rough stone walls of the dungeon; the heavy beryl-hued velvet drapes, the colour of his house, dividing the space been the library and a private room beyond.
"I retrieved many of the volumes from my library from Spinner's End after securing my current quarters," he continued conversationally, without further comment on the dangers of having a student in his private chambers at this unconscionable hour. He crossed his lean legs at the knee. She could see the black socks he wore. She found this curiously…sexy.
She cleared her throat. "It's an extraordinary room. Thank you for sharing it with me, sir."
"Indeed, Miss Granger," he replied, watching her over his glass of brandy as he took a swallow.
She unpacked a few books from her rucksack and settled into a soft leather couch across from him. He rose to retrieve the pile of parchment from the desk, placing it on a small table next to his chair. He began to unroll them one by one, scrawling comments in bold black ink as he read. She glanced up periodically to see a scowl on his face of varying degrees; she assumed it was proportional to the quality of the paper he was currently grading. The effect was surprisingly endearing.
The night wore on.
After hours had gone by, he cut the silence with a question, his silky voice barely above a whisper. "When do your roommates usually retire, Miss Granger?"
She glanced up from her potions book. "It depends, sir. As it's Saturday night, it's likely to be 2 or 3 a.m." She suddenly realized it was after eleven and made to pack up her rucksack. "I should be going, Professor."
"It's not necessary, Miss Granger. As I said before, I rarely sleep. And if I do…as of late, dreams tend to make it…unrestful," he said with an odd look. "You may stay as long as you wish. You are not imposing." He got up abruptly and took his leave of the room before she could thank him.
As he left, she put her head down on the soft leather sofa. I'll close my eyes for just a second…
Severus returned to the library to find that Miss Granger had curled up and fallen asleep on his couch. What to do now? He conjured a woolen blanket to place over her and ensured the fire was spirited enough to last for a while. He eased himself down into his favourite leather chair across the room from her and softened the lamplight by magic, allowing himself to openly watch her slow, deep breaths and study her relaxed, delicate features. Until his dream, he hadn't noticed her full lips, or the delicious curve of her breasts. Now those lips and curves were asleep on his sofa. What the hell was he thinking inviting her into his chambers? Should he wake her now? What would he do if she slept until morning?
Suddenly, a low, guttural moan rose from her throat, breaking the tranquility, startling him. He calmed himself—perhaps Miss Granger suffered nightmares from the war, much as he did. She moaned again; it was a husky, rough sound…wait…that's not the sound of agony. Apparently Miss Granger was enjoying herself quite loudly on his couch. Embarrassed but unable to move, he found himself rooted to the chair as if he were some depraved voyeur. "Yes…" she panted in a ragged voice. "Please…" her unconscious form begged from his sofa, "more…"
Perhaps it's time to leave Miss Granger to her machinations. He willed himself up from his leather chair and crossed the room, heading towards the entrance to the hall. As she continued to moan, he heard words escape her lips that stopped him cold: "Severus…Severus!" she panted. Merlin...that sounds just like…no, it couldn't be. He felt the beginnings of an erection stir at the sound of his name. Fuck!
He turned back toward her and approached the couch. She was biting her bottom lip, which did not help the situation in his trousers. He collapsed onto the generous rug, supporting his back against the leather sofa, placing himself on the floor next to her prone body. He leaned his head back onto the seat of the couch, turning it so he could watch her. He could feel her quickened breath brush his skin; now she was smiling in her sleep. It seemed she had relished her…recent exertions.
It was then he saw the tear. A single tear traveled down her lovely face, yet her smile had not faltered. Then she said clearly, "Yes, I'm all right, Severus. I have never been as happy as I am at this moment. New wives are granted such frivolities. They are encouraged, even."
Then he knew.
And sitting on the floor next to her, he spoke aloud the very response he had given her in his dream: "Forgive me if I never encourage tears, joyful or otherwise. I much prefer your smile, Wife."
Her eyes snapped open. If she was surprised to find him—the physical, tangible him—parked on the floor so close to her, waking her with the exact words she had expected him to say inside her dream, she hid it well. She squirmed, still flushed and breathing slightly hard from the fantasy's end.
"Tell me about your dream, Hermione," he said, lowering his velvet voice to a whisper and using her given name.
She didn't answer, but instead stared at him with wide honey eyes.
"Tell me," he encouraged, softly.
She gulped. "You…you were there. You…I…we…" she stuttered then stopped under the intensity of his stare. She looked away.
"We were together," he whispered, with no trace of doubt whatsoever.
"Yes…" she said nearly too softly for him to hear, her face paling to white, her caramel eyes turning to his once more.
"You were wearing a green dress," he stated just as softly, "and an emerald pendant." Her eyes widened a little more. "You had a single wild white rose in your hair."
"And you were wearing what you are wearing now, standing against a stone wall near the entrance to a garden, with your arms crossed, watching me," she whispered finally.
"And I reached out my hand…" he encouraged.
"And I took it, and led you back into the cottage because it had started to snow," she said simply.
"And then I kissed you. You tasted like strawberries. And chocolate."
"Yes," she said faintly. "Then you led me into the bedroom."
"Our bedroom," he amended.
"Yes," she admitted. "And you called me Madam…Snape."
"I said: I love you, Madam Snape-"
"You said: I love you, Madam Snape. I always will." She said cutting across him. "And then you let my hair out of its clip."
"Yes," he said. "Then you threaded your fingers in my hair and kissed me."
"And then…" she stopped as though she couldn't speak it aloud.
"Yes," he said simply.
They were both silent for a moment.
"How…?" she breathed.
"I don't know," he admitted.
More silence.
"No Legilimency?" She locked her eyes on his, searching for truth.
"I swear it. I give you my oath."
She seemed to accept his answer in the silence.
"How many times have you had the dream, Miss Granger?"
"Three times. Once in my dorm, once the night I fell asleep in the library, and just now. It is identical each time." She paused. "And you?"
"Three," he said. "Last night was the third."
Again, silence.
She considered him with her caramel eyes and sat up on the couch. "Will you sit next to me?" she asked. He extracted himself from the floor and eased down next to her onto the chocolate brown leather.
"Hermione."
"Yes," she responded softly, keeping her eyes on her now trembling hands.
"Look at me, Hermione." She obeyed. "We must not ignore this. We cannot. We should not."
She nodded in agreement. "Professor, do you think this is our future? It also feels like it could be our past. Not that we have lived it before, but that we…know each other in that way already. Does that make any sense?"
"Yes. Perhaps it is our future. Or an echo of one of our many pasts, if you will. It matters not. It feels real enough."
"All I know is that I can't stop thinking about it. About you," she admitted.
"It is much the same for me," he responded. "But it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, Hermione."
"A quote from a philosopher of whom I'm unaware?" she said, smiling softly.
He huffed a laugh. "I'm afraid not. It's something our former headmaster was fond of saying."
"Appropriate in our particular case."
"At times I questioned his motives, but never his intelligence," he said wryly. He took her hand and softened his tone. "Hermione…" he said looking into her tawny eyes, "I think we should try." And he leaned in to kiss her, softly, tenderly—for the very first time.
Their lips met. It was all he could do to kiss her slowly, because she tasted so familiar, so much like home, he wanted nothing more than to dissolve into her quickly and completely. He had kissed her a million times yet never before; he had committed the feel of her skin to memory yet it felt brand new to his fingertips; he knew their pace, the cadence of their lovemaking—but at the same time, the very fact that it was familiar shocked him to his core.
His hands found themselves unhooking the clasp on her robes and touching her through her jumper; he felt her fumble with his shirt buttons.
He broke away. "Hermione…I…we…" He took a ragged breath. "We should slow down…"
She responded by covering his lips with her own and threading her fingers in his hair, kissing him more urgently than before. She climbed on his lap, sitting on his thighs and facing him, pushing her sex into his own need for her. He moaned. "Hermione…" he whispered, "I won't be able to stop."
She smiled around her kiss. "I can think of no reason to, Severus. It's not like this is our first time."
In response, he warded the door.
Hermione leaned back and pulled her jumper over her head. Under her jumper, she was clothed in a soft white t-shirt; he put his hands on it immediately as if it was his alone to possess.
"Nox," he murmured, dousing the lights in the room, leaving only the firelight, the concentration required for wordless magic beyond him at the moment. He drew her towards him, kissing her even more urgently, then abandoned her mouth to bite her neck. She threw her head back to give him more of it to explore.
After she granted him a taste, she turned her concentration on the buttons of his white shirt, and after they were undone, she tugged at the buckle on his black belt, finally freeing the leather. She shed her shirt as he shrugged out of his own. Laying his hands on her warm skin, he touched her as if doing so imparted to him all that was necessary for life.
She withdrew from a kiss and unzipped his trousers slowly, gazing at him with her big brown eyes, bold with desire. She stood to remove her trainers, socks, and denims and he discarded his own, kicking his trousers out of the way. As she resumed her position sitting on his lap, he felt her warmth; he deftly unhooked her bra and tossed it away. He might not make it; if this dragged on any longer, he might have to rescind their tacit agreement not vanish any clothing. Panting, he reached down with his forefinger to tug on the waistband of her panties, signaling her to remove them. She lifted herself off him and they both discarded all that was left between them.
Without a word, she locked her brown eyes on his and lowered herself onto him, positioning herself so perfectly that he entered her without any effort at all. She gasped and bit her bottom lip; he hissed through clenched teeth. "Slowly, Hermione," he begged as he felt her softness surrounding him. She started to move. She leaned in to kiss him slowly, deeply. "Severus…" she breathed around her kiss and with that, what little control he had vanished into the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced.
They stilled themselves, panting, eyes locked.
She leaned in and snuggled her head into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. The only sounds were the crackling fire and their breathing as they recovered.
"Hermione…" he whispered, and she looked up at him in response. "Let's move to the other room."
He took the blanket he had used to cover her earlier and wrapped it around her. Grabbing their clothes, he picked her up and carried her down the hall to the bedroom. He placed her gently on his bed, still wrapped in the deep green throw, and tossed the clothes on a nearby chair. "I'll be right back."
Severus left her in the bedroom to retrieve a contraceptive potion from his potion store; returning, he found her sitting up on his bed. She had clothed herself in his white shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, its sleeves swallowing her whole, her hair a ridiculous mess, her eyes full of knowing. And desire.
He thought he might lose his mind just looking at her. His heart was already gone.
As he sat down on the bed next to her, he handed her the small phial. "Drink this." She glanced down at it and he saw recognition in her face; she downed it without comment. He leaned in to kiss her, one hand at the nape of her neck guiding her towards him, the taste of the potion still bitter on her lips.
He broke away. "You haven't said a word, Hermione."
"I'm afraid you wouldn't like what I have to say."
"I… see," he responded and dropped his hand. "This doesn't have to happen again."
She looked away for a moment then turned back to him. He could see her summoning her courage. She smiled softly. "I'd like it to." She locked her honey brown eyes on his and whispered, "I…I'm in love with the man in my dream. Somehow, although I don't understand it, I have always loved him and I always will. Are you that man, Severus? Because my heart says that you are. My mind tells me you are. And I believe you are. And if you are, that means I'm in love with you."
He was so stunned, he couldn't speak.
"See? I told you that you wouldn't like it," she added softly.
"Oh, Hermione," he breathed. He would have never imagined saying what he said next. The words felt alien on his tongue, yet his heart compelled him to speak them aloud, because somehow—he didn't know now—he had said to her them many times before. "I feel like you have been mine forever, but…"
"…it feels brand new," she finished for him.
Both were still for a moment, looking at each other.
"I still don't understand," she whispered.
"We may never understand it," he said, "but that doesn't mean we can't embrace it." He leaned in to kiss tenderly her then, breathing in the essence of her. "There is nothing but you."
"There has never been anything but us."
They moved towards each other to kiss tenderly; he caressed her with his fingertips, and his shirt fell back off her shoulders. "You are so beautiful," he said around his kiss and leaned her back on his bed to make love to her, the woman who had invaded his dreams, who was now in his bed.
