Through and Through
"Smart girl, that Hermione!"
--Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Chapter 7
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since their marriage, and there were two weeks left to seal the deal. It was the halfway point; they were now over the hill, sloping downward, steadily gaining speed until the ultimate conclusion was to be met: consummation, or worse than death.
Oddly enough, with this pressure weighing down on her, the fact that Hermione had to sleep with her professor wasn't the cause of her anxiety.
Instead, she was rather disconcerted because she was starting to want to.
She knew, logically, that since they were married for life and had no choice but to consummate, some sort of feelings for each other were bound to develop. At the very least, they would have to respect each other in general and scrounge up enough lust to placate the dreadful bonding every once in a while. Hermione acknowledged that these feelings would occur; indeed, they were to be encouraged, so that both of their lives would flow more easily.
She knew all of this, but wanting him now seemed to make everything that much more complicated.
Did he have any feelings for her? How could he? She really didn't want to risk losing her magic; would he take that as the reason for her speeding up their physical relationship? If she didn't have any feelings, would they have just waited for the last possible day, then just… done it? Was he good in bed?
Okay, that last one slipped sneakily into her more reasonable questions. But lately, Hermione's thoughts were infiltrated by lust. She couldn't pinpoint when it started or what exactly triggered it, but sometimes, when she saw those dark looks he sent her, when her eyes fell on his long-fingered hands in class, whenever his voice took on that low rumble—she couldn't think of one reason for risking her magic any longer than necessary.
There was always the possibility that she was starting to want him only because she knew she had to sleep with him; it made her view Severus in a different way, and it might be her mind being kind to her, facilitating what it knew must happen.
Hermione knew all of this.
But she had no idea what to do about it.
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It was happening again.
He was in his NEWT Potions class, teaching, and she was staring at him.
Not at him, exactly; her gaze was on nothing in particular, but every once in a while he would see her eyes fixate on his hands, on his body, and most disturbingly of all, her eyes would glaze over, leaving him to only imagine what she could be daydreaming.
Hermione's work was still absurdly perfect, so he couldn't take off points. He really didn't want to call attention to her …stupor, for lack of a better term, lest someone discover their secret marriage. So Severus was left to teach his class, and pretend that his wife wasn't mooning at him from the third row.
It was distracting, to say the least, but it was to be expected. When had he ever failed the Dark Lord? Everything was right on schedule; he just had to be sure to proceed with caution. The tenuous beginnings of a relationship were often what entangled the foolhardy seducer. Severus knew, from vast experience, that this time was perhaps the most dangerous of all…
He abruptly announced the end of class; students stampeded towards the exit, eager to be rid of their ever taciturn professor. Hermione gathered her things slower than most, and walked closer to him than most dared. In one brief stride she looked at him with what could only be called longing, but when she saw him watching her, her face cleared, and she was on her way with the other students.
And according to the Dark Lord, the danger is what attracts her, Severus mused. With a smirk, he began riffling through graded essays he had to give back to his next class. Perhaps this time could be the most dangerous… and the most advantageous.
The fifth years began to seep reluctantly into the dungeon classroom, wary of the ominous smile on their teacher's face
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After his last class, Severus retreated to the dungeons, anxious to relax. On entering his rooms, he saw Hermione lounging ubiquitously on the sofa, completely oblivious to his entrance.
"Is that Yardley's Guide to Dark Herbology, or have you already moved on to something more titillating?" Snape's voice pronounced these last words in a deep staccato.
With a snap, Hermione violently closed her book and stood abruptly.
"Severus!"
"Yes. I am pleased to see your eyesight is still accurate."
"You're early."
"Ah, but unfortunately you can't tell time. Shall I get you one of those muggle timepieces with the lit-up numbers, or shall we endeavor to teach you the science of clock faces?"
Hermione shifted her weight between legs, crossing her arms. "Must you always be so snarky?"
"You didn't answer my question." He moved closer to the sitting area.
"I fail to see what business it is of yours what I read."
Like a thunder cloud quickly shrouding a blue sky, the depths of Severus's black eyes leveled off, leaving cold dark plains.
"What business it is of mine?" His voice was chips of ice falling sharply on the space between them.
Feeling the change, Hermione backed away subtly as Severus took a step towards her.
"Perhaps, as your teacher, one who serves to mold your mind, it is my business." He moved slowly, accenting his words with distaste. "Perhaps, it is my business as a death eater who has to report to the Dark Lord on your progress." He was circling her, herding her into the corner of the room. "Perhaps, as your husband, the man who provided the books which you absorb so readily and naïvely, it is my business." There wasn't any where for Hermione to retreat; Severus was only a couple of feet away. She pressed against the wall futilely. "Perhaps…" He was less than a foot away from her; this last word was said almost as an exhalation of breath against the side of her face. Never losing his imposing demeanor, he breathed in deeply—if he was anyone else, Hermione would've thought he was breathing in the scent of her hair. "I should've known. You weren't ready."
With that, he turned and walked to his favorite chair, leaving Hermione plastered against the wall in the memory of her intimidation. He stared into the fire for a moment, seeming to be lost in thought.
"Not ready for what?" Hermione took a step forward.
The sound of her words seemed to travel to his ears slowly; after a moment, he shook his head lightly as if drawn out of a deep reverie.
"Not ready for all we've asked you to do. The Order, me, the Dark Lord…. Obviously you weren't ready, or you wouldn't be hiding these books like a junkie hides his stash."
Hermione stumbled forward quickly as words of hot anger burned her mouth. "Not ready?! That's ridiculous! I read everything quickly and thoroughly, and I enjoy all learning! I am more ready than anyone else! What could've happened?! Am I suddenly evil? Am I suddenly a creature of darkness, intent upon destruction and death? NO!" She was standing before him, in front of the fire, obstructing his view. "And I'm not hiding my reading, I'm not ashamed of it! You're the one who showed it to me in the first place!"
"Yes! I showed it to you in the first place, so why do you jump out of your skin when I enter the room? Why do you schedule your dark reading around my schedule? You're ashamed, Hermione! You're addicted. You know you are and you don't want anyone else to. You're addicted and you don't see what could possibly be wrong with that. You somehow don't see all the people who have been corrupted by the dark arts, who have turned evil, who have died from the seductive lines of text in these books! You're only safe if you realize that, Hermione." He was sitting forward in his seat; Hermione was standing, looking tired and drawn. With a sigh, she sat back down on the sofa, covering her eyes with her hand. "Can you realize that?"
Softly: "Yes."
In resigned defiance: "Nothing's happened to me yet. I'm still whole and sane and alive, even reading like I have been."
They were both sitting in awkward silence; Hermione was looking anywhere but at Severus. He was studying her intently.
"Nothing's happened to you yet. It's a testament to your character; most would be crazy or death eaters by now. That's why the Dark Lord wants you to study these books: he either wants your intelligence working for him, or eliminated from the other side's arsenal. He wants this because he believes that you will fail or fall. Both are fine with him." He watched Hermione's vacant gaze turn stony. "I have let you have free access to these books because I believe in your intelligence. I believe you can have your beliefs, see the beliefs of others, and put them together to find truth." His eyes studied her slowly. "Can I tell you something?" Her response was a slow nod. "I think Dumbledore's an idiot."
She let out a scoff—"He's the most talented wizard alive!"
Severus's mouth quirked up when she said the answer he'd expected. "Yes, he is. Brilliant, powerful… but he lacks something. You remember that spell I did on you, the sensation magic?" Hermione nodded. "It was qualified as dark magic the first year he was on the Wizengamot. He voted for its inclusion in misdemeanor-banned magic." Severus watched as her expression wavered before becoming a mask again. "So, yes; he's brilliant, talented, powerful—but he doesn't have what I have, what I think you have as well: a discerning mind. Dumbledore sees in black in white, in darkness and light. He ignores the vibrant spectrum of magic surrounding both. Anything can be evil if you desire to do evil with it—Dumbledore ignores that. Great, horrifying dark magic can be used to do acts of unquestionable good. I respect Dumbledore as much as I can respect anyone, but he has a flawed perspective. You and I—we can see!"
This soliloquy was said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Hermione looked at him finally to see an odd look on his visage; one of hope, excitement, and idealism. Passion. They stared into each others' eyes.
"I still don't quite trust you, you know." Her voice was vaguely hoarse, as if her emotion was spent in an unvoiced scream.
"I know."
Hermione took to rearranging the book and papers she'd scattered on his startling entrance. Once they were neat, she looked back up.
"Good evening, by the way."
Severus let out a brief half-smile.
"Good evening."
And after this heated greeting, their evening progressed as usual; they decided to eat in the dungeons, and after calling the house elves, their meal arrived with no further impassioned tirades. In fact, things were unusually quiet during the first half of the meal, until Severus, clearing his throat, broke the silence.
"So I've been meaning to speak with you," he said with unusual directness.
Hermione glanced up from her dinner. "Oh? About what?"
"About time. It has a funny way of going on that often leaves things left undone."
"Is this your roundabout way of bringing up the consummation of our happy union?" She was cutting her chicken in a decidedly precise way. She had known this conversation was coming.
"You thought of that quickly."
"It's a rather large clause in our marriage contract, isn't it? I don't exactly want to painfully lose my magic and my soul."
"No, we wouldn't want that…" He spoke these words in a peculiar tone; Hermione couldn't decide how he meant them.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, until she drew Severus out of his reverie. "So, you wanted to talk about our consummation." She desperately wanted to call it something less prim, but neither love-making nor fuck seemed to fit the situation.
"Yes. You're aware, I trust, that we have two weeks left to complete the binding?"
She wondered if he was as tired of side-stepping the word sex as she was. "I am aware of it."
"I wanted to see how you wished to proceed." His eyes searched her own, and Hermione swiftly became conscious of the fact that she would have to screw this man, and soon. She looked at him, and saw her professor—a man twenty years her senior whom she barely knew. She'd never felt more like a child, more like his student, than right at that moment when she thought of fucking him. He kept up the eye contact, much to her embarrassment, as she was sure her face was flushed from her thoughts. She used her meal as an excuse to break away from his gaze.
"How can we proceed?" she posed this question mostly because she had no idea how to answer him.
"We could wait until the last day of the four weeks, and then… do it." His lack of propriety somehow comforted Hermione. "Or… we could work up to it." He was done with his meal and was now fiddling with his fork absentmindedly.
"Work up to it? How do you mean?" (Although she did have an inkling as to how).
He was a great black spot on the dining area; his dark robes, jet hair, and shadowed eyes stood out from the warm woods of the table and extra bookshelves. His voice reverberated deeply, "We could get to know each other slowly—physically. Work our way up to the act." ('the act' she thought, 'like we're doing a play.') "I thought it might be less jarring, to an extent."
"Yes, I suppose that's a good idea. Er… do we start… now?"
They were about five feet apart, on opposite sides of the dining table. It was quite awkward.
"No time like the present." Severus used his wand to clear away their dishes.
"True." But Hermione felt the cleared dishes put far too much pressure on something to happen. She looked at him uneasily. "How should we start?"
He leveled a gaze at her, his countenance as unreadable as ever. He stood and made his way to her chair. She had spoken the truth earlier: she really didn't yet trust him. And now he was standing and she was sitting, as if he weren't already intimidating enough; how did that always happen? But then Severus grasped Hermione's hands and pulled her to standing; with a fluid movement, she was flush against the wall. She briefly wondered what on earth happened to her earlier lust, surely that would make everything easier, she wouldn't view him as older, as her teacher, just as a man—where had that gone?
With one hand by her head and the other still holding her wrist, he leaned in to kiss her.
Oooh. That's where it was.
Suddenly Hermione knew a thirst that was only quenched by his lips; their kiss intensified, and, utilizing the hand he'd left free, she pulled his head closer. From the back of his neck, her hand drew to the front and down his chest. It was warm—surprisingly so—and she wondered if he was always that way or if it was just now.
His mouth trailed across her jaw and down the line of her neck. Pausing at the tender flesh near her ear, he said,
"Like this."
