Chapter 10
27 October, 1999
It had taken several long hours to decontaminate the dungeon, and once he'd finished that, Snape had started right away on a variation of burn paste for Hermione. He had alternated between all-out fury and then horror throughout the afternoon, making the finer work of the burn paste more difficult than it should have been.
That she'd dare to not just question his authority in the classroom, but also publicly air her grievance - rightly or wrongly - against him greatly infuriated him. Then again, the injury to her arm had been rather... well, gruesome as potions accidents went, and made all the worse by that fact he'd not even noticed it until Draco had interrupted. He blamed himself for letting it get that bad; it wasn't like he didn't know how caustic that particular potion could be at that stage.
But by Merlin, he had wanted to shake the life out of her when they were fighting it out in the classroom. He had known what shortcut she had been trying to show Longbottom, and had been rather aghast that she had apparently forgotten that pickled sloth brains rendered the concoction much more unstable; when it had blown up, things had gone to hell in a hurry.
"...where would you be without my help?"
The question - as well as answer - rankled greatly. Because he would be rotting in a bed somewhere, or if he was lucky, dead, had it not been for her. But that was an extremely bitter truth, made all the worse by the fact that he had unrequited and very inappropriate feelings for her... on top of the life debt.
It was with those thoughts in mind that he let himself into the Hospital Ward; glancing at the rows of beds, he felt a spurt of panic when he failed to find Hermione safely ensconced in one of them. Abruptly, Poppy emerged from her office, carrying a set of clean sheets.
"Where is she?" he inquired, willing his emotions not to show. If she had been ill enough to be transferred to St. Mungo's, someone would have surely told him...
"With Minerva," the Healer started. And then: "Severus, you should wait..."
"Later," he bit off, and headed quickly towards Minerva's office.
The door sprang open just as he reached the top of the stairs, and for one second, he was blinded by the bright candlelight streaming in from the main room. Then a slight form stepped forward and partially blocked the wavering illumination; as his sight came back into focus, he saw that it was Hermione.
His heart gave an almighty lurch, and then just altogether stopped.
They both froze, the normal difference in their heights suddenly negated by the stairs. Positioned evenly as they were, he found himself looking her straight in the eyes; her countenance was a little grim, and before she cleared her expression, he saw an echo of his own bitterness staring back him.
The odd play of light on her face, along with the poorly hidden hints of strain, called forth his dim memories of that night in the Shrieking Shack; like a ghost, he could suddenly feel the faint fingers of her magic upon him, and the life debt, always hanging above his head like the Sword of Damocles, gave a painful twinge.
Gazing at her - battered and worn, but not beaten, and even lovelier for it - Snape wanted nothing more than to apologize, make things right between them. He simply wanted... her, whether it be fair or foul; he was so bloody tired of living a half-life...
Snape opened his mouth to apologize when she pre-empted him. "I need to get down the staircase."
And just like that, his heart restarted. Reality returned. Without a word, he moved aside so she could pass. She slipped past him without another word, leaving only the vague scent of jasmine and healing paste behind.
Gazing blankly at the top of the staircase where she had been standing, Snape was startled when Minerva appeared.
She watched him for a measuring moment, then spoke. "Come up and close the door."
Packing proved to be a rather easy task; she had never gotten around to unpacking her trunk in the first place. Still, she wanted to make sure that she was leaving nothing behind in her haste to meet Harry at the gates. Hermione had just bent to check under the bed one last time when a flicker of movement from the doorway caught her eye; spinning, she turned towards the motion, wand drawn.
It was Professor Snape.
He didn't appear angry, just... hollow, and she was struck by what an odd observation that was.
Without meaning to, she took one step forward, then another, until she was standing in the doorway opposite him. She heard a strange rushing in her ears, realizing only after she'd wiped the sweat from her palms on her robe that it was her heart pounding.
"You're leaving." He intoned the words precisely, but they still came out halfway between a statement and a question.
"Yes," she confirmed. Tried to slow the frantic beating of her pulse.
"Stay."
She looked away as the impact of his softly spoken plea hit her; through a narrowed field of vision, she saw his hand, digits as pale as newly hewn marble, gripping the still of the doorway hard enough that she was surprised to not see cracks appear in the wooden frame.
Why did he have to come here... she thought amid a rising tide of hysteria. My mind is made up. I am done with Hogwarts. Done with him... Out of the night, Madame Pomfrey's words came to her again: "...a fine line between love and hate."
She met his gaze again, determined to not act the ninny. It was a mistake. For the first time, she noticed the lush curve of his bottom lip; inhaling deeply to rid herself of that sensual thought, she became aware of the smell of him, a mixture of potions, with an underlying aesthesis of man and starched linen.
"Why should I stay here?" she scoffed, the first flickers of anger, of fear, rousing in her.
"Because you've never quit anything for as long as I've known you."
"Not good enough." Her hands suddenly tingled with urge to touch- or maybe slap- him, and Hermione could feel the start of a flush blooming on her cheeks and neck. "Why do you care whether I stay or not?"
"You think I don't care?" He spat the words, his black eyes flashing with a heat that she had never seen before.
"No, I don't," she retorted. "Because if you cared so bloody much, why do you treat me so horribly?!"
"Why?" he gave a bitter chuckle, eyes focusing on something she couldn't see.
"Why?" she repeated, drawing his attention back to her.
"This is why," he said with a snarl, and then pulled her towards him.
His lips were on hers before she could think to protest; demanding and hungry, they nevertheless coaxed her into meeting him halfway. The hot exhalation of his breath on hers prompted her to part her own lips, allowing him greater freedom. He gave another low growl - or was it a moan? - as she opened to him, and she was lost in a flood of lust.
For the first time in months, she felt alive.
Hands clutching at the front of his robes, she pulled herself into the scorching circle of his arms. He took her mouth in another fiery kiss, one hand at her back pressing her closer, the other cupping her face almost gently. His tongue sought hers, and she revelled in the potent taste of him. She could feel the need coming off him in waves, a desperate need for her, and he shuddered as she ran an experimental hand down his lean flank.
Dimly, she became aware that they were shifting away from the open doorway; she arched her body willingly into his when he scooped her up and stumbled towards her four-poster bed. Then they were falling, legs intertwining as they hit the mattress.
It was she who groaned as his solid weight met her hips; unable to control herself, she rocked into the hardness of his growing erection. He exhaled sharply, head falling back and eyes drifting shut. The sight of him, unravelling before her very eyes, was like a torch to oil. In all her previous fumblings, she had never been driven to such desire. Ron... Ron had been oblivious to everything but his own pleasure, and she been mostly unaware or uncertain under the tutelage of Viktor's tame kissing.
But Snape...
That thought seemed to reverberate between them. His eyes, black as night, locked onto hers. For once he hid nothing from her; she could see his desire, and a longing that went bone-deep. Her own heart gave a lurch at that naked expression, and all she wanted in that moment was to be the focus of that attention; be fiercely wanted, and want that much in return.
"Touch me," she gasped. "Please..."
He went still for a painfully long second, and then attacked her. His hands - caressing, teasing, cupping - were everywhere, and he dragged the moist heat of his mouth down the column of her throat, licking and nipping as he went.
She moaned again, a shockingly loud sound in the midnight quiet of the room, and that seemed to push him into a further frenzy of desire. She could felt the rapid beat of his heart where they pressed together, see his heaving sides. Abruptly, she wanted to feel more than just linen and wool; she wanted his bare flesh on hers.
He apparently shared the same notion, for his nimble hands had undone her robe and were flying up the buttons of her uniform shirt. With a muffled pop, he rent the remainder of it open, and Hermione experienced the sudden wash of cold air on her chest. Reflexively, she brought her hands up, but he caught them before she could make anything more than a token attempt to cover herself.
She was not busty; she never had been, and the stressors of the last several years had kept her rather slimmer than she wished. Looking up at the man sprawled on one elbow above her, she could see the white expanse of her own chest contrasting vividly with the absolute onyx of his robe, and a wave of self-consciousness overwhelmed her.
Hermione stilled, and he stopped as well after a moment, tearing his regard from her modestly clad breasts to her upturned face. His expression seemed to soften, and he touched the flat of her stomach, gently, almost reverently. She shivered at the slow swipe of his thumb along the top of her jeans.
Hand moving upward again, he cupped her right breast, then her left. "You are so lovely," he breathed, before his head dipped into the valley between the subtle curves.
The rasp of his tongue in concert with the caressing pressure of his large nose was at first startling, and then maddening; he seemed to be deliberately avoiding the areas where she most wanted his mouth. Her bra had somehow come undone, but she was beyond caring. Without meaning to, one of her hands came and wound its way through the dark lengths of his hair, positioning him over her aching nipple; he chuckled darkly, eyes meeting hers for in brief flash of humour.
"There are certain advantages to being bossy..." he rasped, and then eagerly bent to his task.
A long, wool-covered leg insinuated itself between hers, and Hermione realized that she was once again rocking against him, the hard knot of desire twisting tighter and tighter in her belly. Arching further into his questing mouth, she groaned again, and he echoed her sound of abandon with one of his own. Avid mouth sliding to her other nipple, his tongue circled the silken peach point, then laved it with scrupulous care. He cupped her breasts high in his hands, greedily devouring them as if she were his last meal.
"Severus..." she panted, using his given name for the first time.
She felt his hands tighten on her, and then he settled into a primal rhythm, kissing, stroking and cupping her until she was left with the narrowest shreds of coherent reasoning. The masculine weight of his long body lying over her was delicious, and she wanted more; wanted him to press harder into her flesh, wanted...
The rhythm of teeth and lips and hands increased as Hermione grew swollen and wet. His prominent erection against her hip wasn't a threat, but rather a promise, and she pulled at him, trying to get him closer. He matched the pattern of his mouth with her thrusts, skilfully bring her closer to the edge. Hermione felt herself start to fly apart, and he suddenly nipped at her breast, hard.
A tremulous noise left her, transforming into a lusty moan as an intense climax started at her core, and then streaked outward. She shivered, crushing herself against his bulk in grateful relief. His dark head came up, capturing her mouth with his as ripples of pleasure rebounded within her. Arching one last time, she gave in and let herself fly free.
The sound of their laboured breathing was slow to diminish, and it was the inexorable intrusion of the damp chill of the Scottish night that finally brought Hermione back into focus.
When she finally opened her eyes, it was to find him staring at the Hogwarts crest on the pocket of her open blouse; the reality of what they had done - they were professor and student, regardless of any wider situation - struck her with a forceful double-helping of guilt and consternation.
His eyes - framed by surprising thick lashes - met hers, and she found his countenance once again unreadable. He didn't pull back, however; one long-fingered hand came up and brushed the curls from her face.
"Stay," he repeated, as if their previous conversation hadn't been interrupted by heated... snogging.
She stared at him, at a loss. Finally, she too repeated her question. "Why?"
"You belong here."
"But why do you want me to stay?" she persisted.
He did shift away from her then, and as he twisted, she became aware that while she might have found her release, he had not. Still, she said nothing, waiting for him to finally articulate his needs.
"Granger, do I really need to enunciate the myriad reasons why you should stay at Hogwarts?"
His words could not have been more chilling had they been delivered in a bucket of ice water. He can't even use my proper name, she thought with anguish. And it's 'why you should stay at Hogwarts', not 'why I want you to stay'. If he can't even voice what he wants right now - with the physical proof of it being bloody hard to ignore - what's going to happen later?
She looked at him; all dark hair, pale skin, and unsettling gaze, and knew that she couldn't fix this problem - not for him, and probably not with him, either. It occurred to her then that they had left the door wide open, and while she had a private room, she was still housed on the same floor as the entrance to the Gryffindor tower. Her arm, still wrapped in bandages, began an angry throb, and the events of the day began to trickle back in.
"Stay," he said one last time, picking up on her unspoken answer before she could voice it.
"And then what?" Hermione finally responded. "Pretend that... that didn't just happen? Or go back and do it again every time we have a row? What do you want from me, Severus Snape?"
He said nothing to her challenge, face hardening incrementally. It would be a train wreck, she thought miserably. An absolute, utter, train wreck.
Hermione bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry. "No."
Snape rose from swiftly from her bed; his looming presence made her want to cover herself, but resolutely, she forced herself to stay still and not reach for her shirt. Fixing his robes methodically - for she'd only gotten about half his buttons undone - he paused, fingering something in his pocket. Silently, he pulled it out and placed it on the bedside table. Not bothering to look at her again, he swept to the open door and strode out.
Hermione glanced at the round container uncomprehendingly, and then back to the empty door; sitting up she picked up the glass jar, still warmed from his heat, and opened it. A familiar smell wafted up. Burn paste, mixed with extra aloe and chamomile.
Well, she thought as tears started to run down her face, I don't know if it's an apology or payment, but at least this will come in handy.
Ten minutes later, she was sprinting through the low-lying fog, headed for the main gate. Stumbling, she finally made it, only stopping herself from hitting the wrought iron by throwing her hands up; Harry, standing on the other side, looked at her with mounting concern.
Whispering the charm to open the gate, Hermione slide through. Harry pulled her close, taking in the wild state of her hair, puffy lips and the tears still running from her eyes.
"Hermione, what happened?" he asked softly, menace entering his tone.
The words spilled forth uncontrollably. "He kissed me..."
Rage lit up Harry's face, and started for the gate. She caught his arm before he could get trapped by the wards. "Harry, no..." She started sobbing. "I kissed him back..."
He stared at the ground, the moonlight reflecting off his glasses in such a way as to make his expression undecipherable. Finally, he gave a little sigh - of what, she couldn't tell - and placed a warm arm around her shaking shoulders. Wordlessly, he Apparated them back to London.
A/N- And on that heartwarming note, Happy Valentine's Day!
Sooooo dear readers... did Hermione make the correct choice?
A Very Small Prophet hit the nail on the head by commenting in the last chapter, "Hermione is still a little girl at heart, isn't she? Everything revolves around her, and the world is supposed to be fair. She needs to get out of that school and grow up." Likewise, Nathalie Joe asked, "Can they be any more dunderheaded?"
*yes*
But they've hit rock bottom. Snape- in his head, at least- is a 'lecher', and Hermione has not just failed at something, but ran away to boot. And now they get to pick up the pieces, and hopefully move on.
My sincere thanks to all that left comments on the last chapter- Very Small Prophet, BlueWater5, Brightki, Nathalie Joe, Cate Tyler, viola1701e and several guests.