As always, many thanks flung at the divine Ms. Rowling.
And roses and Honeydukes chocolates flung at Leigh-Anne and GinnyW, my fabu betas!
36. EMPTY
His quarters were empty.
He could walk in and immediately know the difference between the silences, silences which might mean she was asleep, she was in the loo, she was buried in a book—
And the empty silence that meant she was simply not there.
Until only days before—just over two weeks—he always entered empty quarters.
Odd how different "empty" felt now.
Before, "empty" meant blessedly devoid of meddlers, schemers and dunderheads. Refuge. Solitude.
Now, "empty" raised uneasy hackles on the back of his neck and made him need to know, Where is she?
He still smelled her in the air, a scent that was both his and hers—spearmint and eucalyptus—and faint, tangy remnants of that other scent they shared—sex.
And a new scent.
Something harsh and chemical and—
Muggle.
He followed the scent into his office, and through that open door to his empty classroom—
And found her fiercely directing a frenzy of activity.
His blackboard's position of authority at the front of the room had been usurped by some sort of board that was both white and shiny. Four coloured pens were simultaneously writing across it in a swoopy script that was instantly recognizable as hers, as she consulted notes and used flicks of her wand to direct each pen, like juggling plates and keeping them all in motion.
The board had been divided into neat sections by wide, straight lines of black ink, but the sections themselves were colour-coordinated and had headings such as "Love," and "Honour," and "Obey," and he continued scanning until his eyes hit, "With my body, I thee worship…."
And that's where he stopped cold.
At the list of words under that phrase.
Two words in particular.
Fellatio.
Cunnilingus.
She turned around and stared at him, her nose wrinkled. "Surely you haven't spent all this time in the Slytherin common room."
"What the hell are you talking—" he began, then overrode her question with one of his own. "What the bloody fucking hell are you doing in my classroom?" A clinical description of their sex life seemed to shout at him from the board. "Anybody could come in here and see that—that—" He gave an impotent wave, words failing him.
She drew herself up more primly and some part of his rebellious brain noticed she was wearing the white shirt with its neck open and plunging since she hadn't bothered to half-arse button it. Her legs were bare and clearly chilled, and she was writing words like fellatio on the board for anyone to come in and see—
"Surely you don't think I'm stupid enough to conduct my research without warding the doors," she snipped, turning her back to him and returning to said research with a flounce of her horrid hair.
"What gave you the right, Miss Granger, to take over my classroom and—"
"I'm trying to do the research you want done to prove to you that your bloody 'Muggle vows' aren't going to doom you to perdition, you big git!"
He froze.
He saw her flinch, and knew why she did, that she anticipated his reaction to her hurling names at him.
But no, that's not what froze him in his tracks and made his blood run cold.
The words just over her shoulder came into focus again. With my body I thee worship…. Fellatio. Cunnilingus.
Was she saying this was magical compulsion?
That her joining with him, her fully appreciative participation in sex between them, wasn't from her, but was instead from some perversion of her vows?
He dragged his eyes back to hers. "Perhaps you'd like to explain your research?"
"Oh." She spun back to the board. "Well, I've just barely begun, but I think we can eliminate a few things right off. Things like love… That can't be affected—I know, I know, I know what you said and I can see why you might feel it's a horrible thing to demand of a wizard's vow, and if vowing it has some magical effects on wizards—well, I don't know, that would be for you to decide. But there's no way the love itself could be a magical compulsion simply because of the addition of the Muggle—I mean, the sacramental vows."
She turned back to face him, her eyes large as she strove to make him understand. "Christian theology includes Free Will. There's no way a vow could make somebody love or force them to love. It would go against everything—it denies a person free will, don't you see?"
He gestured impatiently to her to continue.
"Honour… well, that's an action, that's how you treat someone, so I suppose it's possible the sacramental vow might be emphasized by the magical one, or vice versa. But, still, I'm not sure…. And then there's obey. And that's just silly. I'm not obedient."
"Let's come back to that one, shall we?" he said, his voice cool even to his own ears.
She crossed to the other side of the board, and her hand brushed across the words that taunted him. "But this, this might mean something…."
"Indeed? Perhaps you would explain?" He stood stiffly, watching her long, delicate fingers gesture at the red pen so that it circled the word, fellatio.
"I, of course, read about oral sex," she said, her voice light and curious and oddly clinical, "but couldn't imagine anybody wanting to actually do it."
She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, and managed to look almost shy, this brazen minx who had taken him into her mouth and—
"Until I realized I wanted to do it to you." She glanced quickly away.
Wanted? She wanted to? Or felt compelled? He swallowed thickly.
"Before that, the idea of putting a man's penis in my mouth or a man's tongue in my vagina was simply beyond my comprehension," she rattled on blithely. "I couldn't imagine doing it, or letting anybody do it to me."
Nor could I. The words came unbidden into his mind.
"I certainly never thought I would everperform fellatio, in fact, I thought I'd hex the man who thrust himself at my mouth," she blurted indignantly, "But within days of our wedding I was sucking your—"
"Yes, yes," he interrupted, not sure that he could continue this conversation and retain his sanity.
"And I wanted to!"
How could her words be so brazen and her eyes so fucking innocent?Merlin!
"But, it wasn't sudden—not like I had this sudden raging urge, or like I felt forced against my will. I studied the book and I realized that it was something I could give you, something I could do for you." Her eyes fluttered around the room, looking for some place to rest their gaze. "And then I decided I wanted to! It was a conscious decision, not a sudden impulse or urge…." The silence spun between them.
"Do you really think that was because of the vows?" she asked fearfully but rushed on before he could even think to answer, thank Merlin. "And even if it was—why does that have to be a bad thing? I mean, I liked it…. And then, when you did it to me—" This time her cheeks flushed with colour and she spun away from him to face the board and he knew a moment's urge to reach out for her—
A loud crack split the air.
Dobby appeared lugging a heavy piece of carved stone, and beaming and huffing for breath, turned to face Miss Granger—
"Headmaster Dumbledore said to wait until Professor Snape is back so—"
"Out!" Snape roared, and the House-Elf's pleased expression turned to goggle-eyed terror as he disappeared with another crack, hopefully before getting a glimpse of what was written on the board and without hearing anything, fucking hell, don't let that blasted house-elf have heard anything—and she was standing there looking so sodding fuckable—
"How dare you!" She whirled on him, fists on her hips, and all the board pens fell to the stone floor with a clatter. "I've been waiting for that for hours!"
She flung her head back and shouted, "Dobby!"
Crack!
Dobby appeared, dropped the heavy stone piece, and cracked out again, his face a mask of dismay.
"Thank you!" she shouted after him, then turned a vicious glare on Snape.
"What in fucking hell—" he demanded, flustered.
"It's a pensieve," she hissed as she did her best to lift it.
"Out of my way," he snapped, and with a flick of his wrist, Levitated it to his desktop. "And why do you need a fucking pensieve?"
"To revisit our vows, you bloody—"
"That will be quite enough," he snapped. "I refuse to stand in my own classroom while my wife heaps abuse on my head! And if I catch you even attempting to remove memories by yourself—"
"I had no intention of it!"
"Well. I should hope not." He fought the urge to shove her hair out of her face, and instead, hid behind his own.
She ended her glare by turning her back on him and scooping her pens from the floor.
He stared at her back, at the way the hem of the white shirt skimmed her thighs—at the tiny spot of brown in the tail that could only be a dried remnant of her blood, caught in the tight, narrow fold of the hem.
And he knew an unreasonable urge to kiss her.
He denied that urge.
Her back still to him, she waved her hand in front of her face. "If you insist on spending time in smoky rooms, you could at least use a freshening spell before you return."
She smelled cigarette smoke? Lucius hadn't been smoking…. But he often smoked in the conservatory. Snape gave a surreptitious sniff and realized that yes, the faint scent clung to him. It wasn't that he didn't smell it; Merlin knew his nose didn't miss anything. It hadn't registered because it was simply the way Lucius smelled so much of the time—of tobacco.
As did the seventh-year salon off the Slytherin common room.
Her question, when he'd first arrived.
"I had business with Lucius," he said, resentful that he felt the need to explain himself to her. Belatedly, he performed the freshening charm. "Although how you can complain, with the stench of those Muggle pens—"
"My grandmother who was not a witch smoked, and she died of lung cancer," she said softly.
"Oh." He drew in a breath. "But of course, you realize that wizards don't—"
She turned on him, her eyes cold. "Yes, I'm very familiar with the fact that pureblood wizards aren't susceptible to cancer."
Fucking hell.
There were two primary reasons smoking was so prevalent amongst Slytherins.
One, cigarettes in the wizarding world were bloody expensive, being imported from the outside. It was a symbol of wealth, practically like setting money on fire just because you could.
And, two, because amongst purebloods not only was there no risk of cancer, but amongst certain purebloods—the kind who were sorted into Slytherin, for example—there was often a nasty desire to flaunt their immunity as some sort of proof of physical superiority over half-bloods and Muggle-borns.
"Miss Granger." He took two steps toward her, but she turned her back to him again.
There it was, again. That desire to kiss her. This time, to soothe, to apologize without actually… apologizing.
"I've been remiss. It won't happen again."
She shrugged and he watched the white cotton ripple over her shoulders. He felt both the soft cotton and the silken texture of her skin in his imagination, and there they were, within his reach….
"I believe it's time to prepare for dinner," he said.
"Do we have to go to dinner? I mean, I've only scratched the surface here." She turned and her eyes were alight with anticipation. Clearly she was thrilled to have a project, as if she didn't already have a dozen.
"Yes," he said. "It's expected."
She sighed.
He watched as she performed an intricate bit of wandwork to reduce the white board down to the size of her palm, and very carefully place it in a wooden box, along with the pens. She finally released the wards on the door, then he followed her back to their quarters.
He dropped onto the bed to change into his warmer boots; the nights were getting colder and the Great Hall was drafty.
She reached into the wardrobe for the black robes she seemed to prefer—his, of course. The ones he'd shrunk to fit her for the Sorting. As she shrugged them on over the white shirt—still not buttoned properly, he noted with a grimace—she gave him a measured look.
"What?" he demanded.
She didn't pretend not to understand. She seemed to brace herself for something and that in itself was enough to give him second thoughts, make him want to shut her off before she got started.
"It's about those things you said last night, in Professor Dumbledore's office, and… here."
Merlin, did she have to rehash all of that?
"It's just that—I'm not sure whether you said those things because you were trying to push me away, or whether…." Her voice drifted to silence and she finally raised her lashes, those dark, curly lashes, and looked straight at him with eyes the colour of hot, sweet tea. "I'm not sure whether you realized you were lying, or whether you thought you were telling the truth."
He stiffened.
"If you know you're lying, that's one thing, I don't care, I suppose you have your reasons," she nattered on, twisting her fingers through her hair. "But if you don't know—well, I don't like that you think so poorly of yourself, that's all."
"Poorly? You don't like that I think poorly of myself?" He laughed his scorn. "Would you rather I deluded the both of us?"
She shook her head slowly, but her eyes never left his and he found himself quite unable to break the connection, even as she walked close enough to him to reach out and touch. "You are a terrible liar," she whispered. "You said that you'd seduce me, even if I was still a child—and I asked myself, does he really think that little of himself? Because even I know that you would do none of those things. You would simply torment me more, and call me worse names, and despise me even more than you do now for being the cause of your distress." She stroked his hair away from his temple and, lips trembling, continued, "But you would cling to your honor because that's who you are."
"Damn it—stop romanticizing me! I'm not a fucking hero, and the sooner you realize that—" He gave her a vicious glare and tried to wrench himself from her hands.
But she clung to his hair and refused to release him. "Last night, you wouldn't have been afraid, and you wouldn't have dragged me up to Professor Dumbledore's office, if you didn't feel something. If you didn't feel something for me. If you weren't afraid that what you felt was the result of 'Muggle magic,' you wouldn't have done or said any of those things."
Again, he tried to break away, but she clung to him with all of her power. "You don't have to admit it, and you don't have to believe me, because none of it makes any difference now. You don't have to wonder what would happen if I used a Time-Turner, because I won't offer to rip out my heart for you that way again."
And then, with a touch as delicate as butterfly's fluttering wing, she touched his cheek. "You're a better man than you think you are, Professor Snape. And I'm not going to let you pretend otherwise. Not to me."
His breath was trapped in his lungs. He couldn't breathe. She was—she was insane, a stupid little girl with romantic fantasies about the man that cruel fates had sent to her bed, a stupid, stupid girl—
The cleverest witch of her age.
And she was peering deeply into his eyes, waiting, waiting—for what? For him to… what?
Her expression softened and she placed the cool palms of her hands on either side of his face and held it still and gently kissed him.
And when—belatedly—his arms reached for her—
She was already backing away, that shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she grabbed her hair and twisted it haphazardly on the back of her head, and took his mother's hair comb and secured the mess with a satisfied pat.
Idiot girl, he thought helplessly, as she walked to the door, not waiting for him to follow.
It hit him, then, so hot it drew a hiss from his lips.
The burn.
The Dark Mark.
The summons.
He looked up to see her frozen at the door, staring at his right hand, clamped over his left forearm.
She whipped around and took a step back toward him, but he shook his head sharply, and pinned her with a cold stare.
"Your good husband is being summoned to his master," he said succinctly.
She ran to him, then. Flung herself into his arms. Buried her face in his neck so that he felt her heart pounding against him.
"Be safe," she said breathlessly. "Come back to me."
He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth and gently pushed her away.
"Tell Albus."
Eyes huge in her face, she nodded, and he left her that way.
Fool, he thought viciously.
But he wasn't certain whether the word was aimed at her or at himself.
He used the all-too-short walk through the icy night to push her out of his mind, leaving it empty.
Because that was the only way to survive.
By embracing the emptiness.