UNTOUCHED

A story by Anette S


Disclaimer: Still Jo's. I play with them. No money here.

Author's note: Thank you for your support and for reading this story. It blows me away each and every time I click the review button to see your thoughts.

Love, Anette


Chapter 6

Dawn

He knew she was waking up even before she stirred. Her breathing changed, and he closed his eyes, suddenly unable to face her. Would he see fear, terror in her irises? Will she be disgusted by his presence in her bed? Will she run away from him, her instincts igniting her defence mechanisms at the presence of another body so close to her? He would have left before she woke up, but any attempt of untangling her arms went poorly.

She clung to him, not relinquishing the contact even when dreams plagued her again later in the night.

He murmured calming nothings into her hair, rubbed his palm over her back until she calmed. In her sleep, she slid her arm higher until her palm rested on his shoulder and then slipped into a deeper sleep.

She hadn't woken again, didn't even come close to it.

Come dawn, she was draped over him as a child would be over his favourite blanket. Sheets were long discarded, and it was his limbs she used as her safety comforter. Her knee rested on his right thigh, the soft cotton of her light blue pyjama bottoms warming the skin it lay over. He was painfully aware of her not so sensible spaghetti strapped top and the rhythmic wave of her breasts as she released her every breath.

She slept in his arms as a lover would, he supposed. Not that he knew. He never had the privilege to wake up with the woman he spent the night with, not had he wished to do so with the women who had shared his bed before this night. He closed his eyes in bitterness.

How far from lovers were they at this moment… But still, he felt the weight of her torso pressed against his', and how his breathing matched hers in those few precious hours he was allowed to hold her while she slept peacefully. He allowed himself a brief moment of imagination, and let his thoughts wander into a different reality. The one where she would not be afraid to be touched. To be held, awake. To be caressed. To be a lover. He wondered if that moment would ever come, and sadness overwhelmed him. The firm belief that he would surely not be the one to hold her then was almost unbearable, but he, as usual, as always, pushed those thoughts away.

He was not important. He was never important enough to be granted such pleasure. He dared not to wish it now.

The brief moment his thoughts wandered away from the presence of the young woman in his arms were enough for him to miss the first fluttering of her eyelids. He could not see that her irises were now clear and focused on the short black hair dusting the exposed beginning of his forearm. He didn't realize she was observing every open inch of his skin. The hint of a collarbone peaking under his two top unbuttoned shirt buttons. The spattering of tiny scars over his fingers on the hand that lay over her smaller one on his left shoulder.

She woke up feeling… warm. Very warm, and slightly uncomfortable. The air in the room was heavy, and the soft breeze coming through the window hinted of yet another day of sweltering heat. Her limbs would have screamed for her to move, even the slightest bit, but, and she would be thankful for that later, it still took her muscles a while to react to the requests of her mind.

So the first she managed to do was to open her eyes.

She was met with a mountain of flesh, moving, breathing flesh, liberally covered with a dark blue pyjama of the finest silk.

And she knew it was him. She knew it was real, and her dreams came rushing back to her. The pain, the horror, the anguish… she was running, hid somewhere, she was not sure where, and there he was. He made it all better. He made her feel safe.

And he was real, here, and obviously asleep.

Severus.

How strange the world seemed to her. He was not her Potions teacher. No, the man holding her in his arms now bore very little resemblance to the serious man in perpetual black no one ever really knew, or so she had thought back then. This man, the one whose presence hadn't scared her, whose arms she felt as a shield, not shackles around her, was the man she met six weeks ago. He was sitting by her hospital bed in the dead of the night, and she woke up, her limbs screaming, the pain blinding.

"It hurts…" she whispered only half-aware of her situation, not managing to say more in her weakened state.

"I know…" he murmured, and his hand covered hers, resting on the simple white cotton hospital bed sheet. "Close your eyes," he added.

And as he murmured spells, she felt the pain ebb, and slipped back into welcome nothingness.

She would never forget that voice. She knew that voice. She would always trust that voice.

He still didn't know she remembered the night.

She overheard the Healers telling Remus and Tonks that she would not have recollections of the hours when sedated. They sedated her to give her the invasive reparative potions therapy. There was a lot to heal. Internal damage. They thought it would be enough to simply sedate her. Didn't they know she was crucioed so much that a standard sedating charm would not work well enough on her torn nerves? Didn't they understand? But he did. He understood. And held vigilant by her bedside, disillusioned, making her go to sleep over and over again whenever the charm broke.

She would never forget that voice. It was Severus, she knew from the first day. And he still didn't know she remembered that night…

A sigh escaped her lips, and it was enough to alert him.

He stiffened, his hand still covering hers, but a fear washed over him and he made a move to break the contact.

"No…" she whispered, slipping her small palm from its place and moving it on top of his bigger one. "Don't."

He relaxed a little and, without a word more, they lay awake, together, for what seemed like an eternity to him.

His mind was reeling. Why hasn't she fled? Screamed at him? Kicked him out of her bed, the house, her life?

"You smell nice…" she said at last, chuckling softly.

The phrase seemed so odd, so out of place, it was the last thing he thought he would hear next from her and it threw him completely off his axis. He was still unable to say a word. He felt uncomfortable, he didn't know what to do with his arms or if he should move or not. He dared not do anything out of fear that this somehow idyllic, but obviously real moment would burst.

Suddenly she was aware of his tension, and it made her feel terribly self-conscious. "I'm sorry," she murmured, rolling away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing the window. Another flashback of last night blazed in front of her eyes. Him; picking her up, cradling her to his chest, and the overpowering feeling of being safe, protected, cloaked in somebody else's coat of armour.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…I…I threw myself at you…" she was rambling now.

He was out of bed and on his knees in front of her in a flash. His discomfort quickly forgotten when faced with her obvious reaction to it, and the terrible pain in his soul brought on by the loss of contact. He could slap himself for such foolishness. Couldn't he know she would feel it?

"Hermione…" he rasped, his voice still raw, unused.

She just shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "What you must think of me…" she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She rubbed angrily at them, chasing them away.

"Hermione, look at me," he said more firmly now, and she lifted the wet pools of amber and gold to meet his' determined gaze. He took a deep breath and brought his hands close to hers, not touching, asking permission. She placed her palms in the welcoming safety of his', and he brought them together in his gentle clasp.

"Never…. Never be sorry. Not for this," he said, and she shuddered when he opened his gaze and let her see, if only for a moment, how deep his intentions were.

They were silent for a long while, just looking at each other, her hands in his', their eyes connected.

"What is this?" she asked finally.

"Whatever you want it to be."

"I… I don't know what I want," she stuttered, breaking their contact, rising from bed. She stumbled a little, her knees at their usual weak point in the morning.

He was next to her and holding her up before she could reach for the headboard. His arm wrapped around her waist, and this time neither thought about the touch, so natural it seemed.

On weak legs she reached the window. He stayed a few steps back, awaiting her words.

She turned and saw him. His clothes were crumpled, and she could see wet, salt rimmed stains on his half buttoned shirt. Tearstains. Her tears had made those. And she was again reminded this was not her Potions professor. And the thought was enough for her to let the tension go. She walked slowly back to him, until she could feel his breath on her skin. It soothed her.

With eyes on his chest and her arms dangling loosely on her sides, she spoke softly. "It hurt so much, that first night, and you were there… I know it was you… I can't…" she stumbled over her words, but pushed them out nevertheless. "I don't know what I can say. I can't think about this. I don't want to analyze this."

"Then don't," he rumbled above her. She still didn't dare to meet his eyes.

"Tell me what to do," she said at last, and looked up at him.

His heart ached at the sight of her. He reached his hand slowly and caressed her cheek. "Go change into your day clothes. Pick out a book you would like to read and come down. And I'll go make us tea."

She watched this man, and some little thing that lay in pieces inside of her started to mend itself.

He stepped back and walked to the door.

"Severus?"

"Yes?" he turned, the sound of his name falling off her lips making his breath hitch the smallest bit.

"Can you make us some toast?"

He smiled. "Certainly."