Disclaimer: I am not the amazing J.K. Rowling. I own nothing in the Wizarding World.

Author's Note: I'm going to start putting trigger warnings at the end of the chapter as to not spoil the chapter content from here on out. It's about get intense and I don't want to accidentally spoil anything. If you have triggers, please check the bottom of the chapter before reading.

Chapter rating: MA/Ex/NC-17 for reasons listed at the bottom of the chapter.

Chapter 15

Severus

"Nice to see you again so soon, Severusss. You come bearing good news, I hope." Voldemort was sitting at the head of the sixteen-seat dining table, his malformed, snake-like features twisting with gleeful expectation. Apparently twenty-four hours between visits was more than enough time in the Dark Lord's eyes to deliver… different news.

Severus took a deep, inaudible breath and sat on Voldemort's left. His eyes quickly darted around the room; every seat was occupied, and it seemed more bodies lined the walls of the dimly-lit dining room. Severus tried hard not to sneer at the sniveling Wormtail, who was cowering by the pillars, his beady eyes shifting around the room as if he were expecting a stray Avada to come his way should a brawl break out. Severus was careful not to catch Draco Malfoy's eye, but it seemed the boy finally learned to keep his eyes cast downward in the Dark Lord's presence. However, something about the simpering Malfoy heir struck Severus as odd, he thought, as he returned his focus back on the unpleasant task of placating the narcissistic sociopath.

"Yes, my Lord," Severus proclaimed. "I am close to a solution. It shouldn't be much long –"

"Crucio!"

Severus clinched his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut, his hands curling into fists, and his body threatened to slide out of the chair onto the black marble floor of Malfoy Manor. He dared not cry out as the familiar white-hot pain seared his nerve endings. The Dark Lord was kinder this time, the pain almost bearable as he released the Unforgiveable after only seconds. Severus took a split moment to recover before he sat straighter in his chair, refocusing his attention on his pseudo-master, and interlaced trembling fingers on the table in front of him.

"You were 'close to a solution' a month ago, Severus," Voldemort said simply, his crooked yew wand sliding back into the layers of his robes. Severus bowed his head, wondering if Voldemort really thought he'd have different news than the previous evening. Or if he was just using it as an excuse to dole out his favorite kind of punishment. The latter seemed the likely answer.

"Yes, my Lord. I have had a major breakthrough recently and should be able to start experimenting with potions within the week," he stated, the same sentiment he relayed the prior night, and his eyes lifted from the table to meet the Dark Lord's. Voldemort smiled then, and his slender, cool hand reached down to cover Severus'. He squeezed, nails digging into the fleshy parts of Severus' fingers. He dared not flinch, not even when his skin was pierced, and beads of blood began to puddle under his clasped hands.

"Good," Voldemort stated after a moment, releasing Severus' hands and standing to address the rest of the room. His steel grey robes billowed around him as he drifted gracefully – almost as if he were levitating – behind the chairs. Each occupant, aside from Bellatrix Lestrange, bowed their heads as Voldemort passed behind them – probably hoping they weren't going to be the next victim of his increasing impatience.

"Draco," Voldemort slithered, stopping behind the boy's chair. Severus saw Draco's breath hitch in his chest as the Dark Lord's hands rested on his shoulders, squeezing them tightly. Lucius Malfoy twitched in his seat, but he didn't say anything, his eyes trained on the table.

"My Lord," Draco said, bowing his head. Voldemort squeezed his shoulders tighter, his fingers curling into Draco's black blazer.

"Your father has told me you have yet to complete your task for me." Draco's eyes flicked to his father before landing back on the table and he exhaled. Severus' heart began to pound in his chest. Draco Malfoy has a task? His eyes quickly flicked to Bellatrix and Narcissa; Narcissa's eyes were staring at the table, a quiet rage reflecting in them. Bellatrix, on the other hand, was staring up at the Dark Lord, adoration oozing from her pores, her decaying teeth barred in a grotesque smile. Obviously, they knew about the task, but he was left out of the planning. This was not a good sign.

"No, my Lord. I am waiting until –"

"Draco…" Voldemort interrupted, trailing off as his fingers dug into the Malfoy boy's shoulders. Draco flinched and Lucius twitched again. "It is imperative that the task is completed, and soon. Or do I need to bestow the Act upon another?"

"No, my Lord," came Lucius' deep voice. Voldemort squeezed Draco's shoulders one last time before flitting to Lucius' side.

"'No, my Lord,'" Voldemort mocked. "Why should I continue to favor your family, Lucius, when your Heir has deemed my task unimportant?"

"My Lord, the Prophecy –" Lucius began, but a pale hand on his shoulder stopped him from saying more. Severus' heart pounded harder. Prophecy? There was another prophecy? Fuck.

"Yes, Luciusss, I am well aware of the Prophecy," Voldemort stated, pulling his wand from his robes and twisting it between his long fingers. Lucius stiffened as the tip tapped lightly against his shoulder. In a blink, Voldemort's face was next to Lucius', his features twisting into a sneer. "Do you think me incapable of interpreting a prophecy? Especially when such a thing was foretold by my own Seer?"

"Of course not, my Lord," Lucius swallowed.

"Lucius," Voldemort stated in an eerily calm tone, the tip of his wand sliding up Lucius' neck, "The timing of the Act is not what is important. What is important, however, is the integrity of our… Chosen One." Snickers erupted around the room. Severus' skin began to crawl, and it took everything in him not to abruptly leave the meeting to send a Patronus to Shacklebot; the Order needed to know about a new prophecy.

Just as he was about to level his gaze with the Malfoys across the table, white-hot knives punctured his skin, his tendons, his muscles, his organs, his bones… his brain. Severus seized up, he couldn't help it; this wasn't the proverbial slap on the wrist Severus experienced only minutes prior, this was meant to incapacitate.

He didn't feel his body slide from the chair; he didn't feel the connection with the hard, marble floor; he didn't feel it when his head cracked open with the force of his body's thrashing; he felt nothing except the blinding, burning, twisting, excruciating pain that lasted a lifetime. Mercy came eventually; not in the form of Voldemort's leniency, but in the blackness that accompanied prolonged torture.

As Severus' brain began to shut down, the last thing he saw were warm, honey brown eyes. And the last thing he felt were her lush lips, pressing against his.

Hermione

Hermione sighed, leaning forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees. She steepled her fingers, resting her chin on the tips, and her eyes grazed over the still form of Severus Snape. He was breathing, but that was it. There wasn't any other indication that he hadn't just passed away from the trauma he had gone through. Madam Pomfrey wasn't sure; McGonagall had an idea, but she seemed to believe that Hermione wasn't privy that piece of information.

That was the extent of the people who knew that Severus Snape didn't go away on a trip to harvest a plant that bloomed only once every two hundred years. Not even Horace Slughorn, who owed McGonagall a favor and took over Snape's lessons, knew that through two doors and in a hidden room behind a fireplace, the man in question lain in his queen-sized four-poster unconscious – and in what Hermione believed to be a coma. That irony wasn't lost on her.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Hermione walked in on Snape's unconscious body on the floor of his office, the wound on his head bleeding profusely, but no other signs of injury aside from occasional muscle spasms. Her heart had stopped at the sight, tears had welled in her eyes, and she rushed to his side, using her hands to try to stop the steady flow of blood. He should've been dead; the amount of blood that had pooled under his head was obscene. She retrieved her wand, sent her Patronus to McGonagall, and then Accioed any potions that would help stint the blood loss. She was pouring Blood-Replinishing potion down his throat, her sobs echoing in the room, when McGonagall – closely followed by Madam Pomfrey – flew through his office door, their eyes wide at the sight.

She explained through her wails what she had already done – tried to do – and pleaded with the women to save him. McGonagall took Hermione to the side, her wizened hands cupping her face, asking questions Hermione didn't have the answers to, all while watching the medi-witch scourgify the blood, analyze the wound on his head, and then looked up at them with a dour expression on her face.

McGonagall tapped a few bricks to the left of the fireplace, and it slid open to reveal his quarters. Pomfrey levitated Snape, settled him into his bed, then waved her wand in a series of complicated swishes and flicks. Several things happened, from Snape's body being cleansed and redressed in night clothes to a glowing projection that flashed into existence on the wall behind his four-poster; it reminded her of the Muggle contraptions in hospitals that monitored vital signs. Pomfrey confirmed this, pointing out what each blip meant.

Pomfrey rejoined McGonagall and Hermione, explaining that his head wound was severe, but Hermione's quick thinking with the application of pressure to the wound in combination with the Blood-Replinishing potion saved his life, and yes, he should wake up – in time.

Time dragged on at a flobberworm's pace.

Hermione blinked away the memories, her eyes flicking to the monitor – his heart rate stayed the same, his blood pressure and oxygen levels were normal. As they had been for the last fourteen days. She leaned back in her chair, sighing again, her head falling back on her shoulders and she stared up at the cathedral ceiling. She had a lot of time to think, and it was almost embarrassing how long it took her to work out the obvious details of what had happened. He had been tortured. Likely with the Cruciatus Curse. And that really only meant one thing – Voldemort was back, and Snape had been attending Death Eater meetings.

When she asked, McGonagall told her that she couldn't give her any information, that the Order forbade anyone to divulge information to outsiders, especially 'the children.' Frustrated, Hermione pointed out that she was of age - and far from a child.

"You once told me I am the greatest witch in a century," she had yelled, her words reverberating off the walls of Snape's quarters, tears flowing down her face, "That I was the only person you could trust with the Memory Charm research. Research, may I remind you, most Masters-level students don't participate in. But the Order says I'm not privy to information that affects all of us?" McGonagall had just smiled sadly, shook her head, and left the room.

Hermione groaned, refusing to dwell on any more of her memories, and stood up from her chair. She ran her hands over her face, through her unruly hair, and down the back of her neck – squeezing the column of her spine where a lot of tension was building up. Dropping her arms, she wrapped them around her torso and walked to the lone high-backed armchair that sat in front of another roaring fireplace.

She stood, staring. The flames were mesmerizing. They looked so warm, so peaceful, so welcoming.

She heard the fireplace scrape open, a woman's voice asked questions – though Hermione had no idea what they were - then it closed again.

She wanted to close her eyes, curl up in a ball in front of those dancing flames, and go to sleep. She was so exhausted.

She heard tell-tale scraping again, a different woman's voice spoke to her, touched her shoulder, squeezed it sympathetically, then the fireplace moved back to conceal the hidden quarters once more.

There were no thoughts as she floated off, those waving flames lulling her. This was a non-existent occurrence; if her mouth wasn't moving to speak, her brain was usually flittering between thoughts at a rapid pace. It was a wonder she ever achieved any amount of REM sleep.

She didn't know how much time passed when she finally blinked and noticed a whimsical dragonfly Patronus hovering in front of her. A lot of it, judging by the way her feet and lower back ached.

When the Patronus finally sensed Hermione's attention was on it, Nicola's voice erupted loudly, echoing off the walls of the room.

"Hermione, I'm worried about you. Meet me in the Room after supper?" Then it faded. Hermione blinked again and turned to Snape's bed – Severus' unmoving form – and let out a quivering breath. Her arms fell to her sides, vaguely noting they were numb, and took a tentative step towards the hole hidden by his office's fireplace. She took another step, then another, gaining enough momentum to launch herself out of the hole, out of his office, through the storage room doors, and out through the Potions classroom door. She began to run. Up the staircase leading to the Entry Way, sprinting past the Great Hall doors where the entire castle sat enjoying their suppers, and out through the courtyard onto the Great Lawn.

A wild, cold breeze whipped through her hair and across her face. She panted, her breath visible in the air when she stopped in the middle of the Lawn. Shimmering snow sparkled in the lights of Hogwarts, coating the ground in a thick blanket. The sky was a wonderous black and blue, stars weaving together in breathtaking patterns; not a cloud in the sky hid Orion, Perseus, or Cassiopeia. Sirius winked at her, Pleiades twinkled, Andromeda shined. She was surprised by it all, but only momentarily. She almost forgot that November had ended and Christmas hols were a mere ten days away. A sob escaped her throat.

"Hermione!" A voice called behind her. Nicola. Hermione closed her eyes and took in a shuddering breath before turning to face her friend. Nicola was standing less than a dozen feet away from Hermione, her face silhouetted in darkness. Her long, raven hair flew freely around her with the wind, her signature mini-buns perched on her head. She was wearing her heavy winter cloak, which almost didn't make sense until Hermione shivered. She hadn't realized how cold she was, despite the dancing breeze.

"Sorry," Hermione said, wrapping her arms around herself. She wasn't wearing anything suitable for the weather; her favorite pale-pink cable-knit jumper was relatively thin given the material, and it was paired with a simple pair of Muggle jeans and her white ballet flats – her usual go-to casual outfit.

Nicola closed the short distance between them and wrapped her arms tightly around Hermione.

"Hermione, what's been going on? Is it… Weasley?" Nicola asked. Hermione closed her eyes again and suppressed the urge to laugh. If only it was Ron. If only her heart felt as if it was being squeezed by a troll because of Ron. If only her physical being hurt because of Ron. If only the ice that replaced the blood in her veins was because of Ron. She leaned into Nicola's embrace and let her chin rest on her shoulder, then shivered again and slowly shook her head. Nicola nodded in response.

"Come on, girl. Let's get you inside and we can talk." Gently, Nicola unwrapped Hermione and guided her into the castle, through the throngs of their fellow students who were finishing supper, and somehow they were on the seventh floor, pacing in front of the blank wall, asking for a place of solitude. The Room of Requirement appeared.

It was furnished as usual. The only notable difference was a pile of warm blankets that sat on the table next to a tea tray ladened with two tea placements. Nicola threw a blanket around Hermione's shoulders and sat her in the armchair closest to the roaring fire. She poured Hermione a cuppa, handed it to her, then sat on the edge of the table, concern flaring in her eyes. Hermione had to look away, her attention turning to the warm hearth, and curled her hands around her teacup, sinking into her chair.

"I haven't seen you much lately," Nicola began hesitantly. "I… I sat at Gryffindor table the first few meals, hoping you'd show. I started getting weird looks after a while, especially from Harry and Ginny, so I went back to Ravenclaw. I began to wonder if something happened between you and Weasley when he didn't show up for a few meals, but he popped back up a couple days later and you didn't.

"I didn't see you in Potions. And then we were told his fat, toad-looking man was substituting for Snape because he was off harvesting a rare flower. I almost wondered if it was because he was going to be absent for a few weeks. But this type of reaction… It's a lot like how it was when I first met you. Like a loss of some kind. That's why I immediately thought it had to do with Weasley and not Snape. Unless… it does?"

They were both silent for a moment. Hermione could feel Nicola's eyes on her, boring into her, her concern radiating off her in waves. It was too much. She couldn't tell Nicola, she couldn't. But it was just too much. Tears pooled in her eyes, breaking the cusp and trailed down her face. She let out a sob. Nicola grabbed the teacup from her hands – Hermione vaguely hearing the china clink when it was set on the table - and then gathered her in a tight hug.

Nicola let Hermione cry, thoroughly soaking her cloak, and when the tears finally dried up, she felt infinitesimally better. At least it was better than absolute zero. She unwrapped herself from Nicola's arms and wiped her face, then sat back in her chair and tucked her legs under her.

"I'm not supposed to say anything to anyone, including Harry and Ginny. If we were on speaking terms, that is. I don't think McGonagall knows there's been a rift there since she mentioned them specifically. Anyway… " Hermione trailed off, bringing her eyes up from her hands to Nicola's face and the worry etched in her features was almost enough to make Hermione cry again. She exhaled a heavy breath, her mind made up. She had to tell someone else.

"You have to promise me you won't tell anyone," Hermione said firmly.

"Who would I tell? I don't have any friends other than you," Nicola affirmed with a small smile. Hermione arched an eyebrow and Nicola let out a huffed giggle.

"Oh, please. They don't count. We don't really talk much anyway. Our mouths are always too preoccupied," Nicola joked. Hermione gave her a watery smile, but it faded when the seriousness of what she was about to say swelled in her chest.

"I can't tell you much. It's very, very secretive. Honestly, I don't even know many of the details because we aren't allowed to know. But I've been able to come to a couple of conclusions, the first being that Voldemort is back and Severus… I think he was tortured by him."

Nicola stared at her, confusion replacing the worry, then horror replaced the confusion. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open.

"What do you mean? How would he have even been in Voldemort's presence to be tortured?" she exclaimed, standing up from the table. Hermione moved quickly, grabbing Nicola's hand, and squeezed it.

"Nicola, please. Let me try to explain. Like I said, I don't know many details, but I do know that Severus –" The sudden appearance of a wispy, blue tabby cat cut her off, and McGonagall's voice surrounded them.

"He's waking," was all it said before it faded. Hermione turned wide eyes on Nicola, dropped her hand, tore the blanket from her shoulders, and raced toward the door to the Room of Requirement. She stopped long enough to turn back to her friend, only long enough to speak a short sentence.

"I'll come find you later and explain everything. Thank you for being such a good friend."

She was breathless by the time she reached the Potions classroom, but she hadn't dared to stop as she dodged her fellow students and even a few professors in her eagerness to get to the dungeons. Many heads turned to stare as she ran through the corridors. Many familiar faces – the faces of her friends – gawked at her as she raced past; she knew they saw red, puffy eyes and the trails of tears, but she couldn't tell them they were tears of hope rather than sorrow. She even thought she heard Neville's voice call out to her, but she couldn't – wouldn't – stop.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she burst through the Potions classroom door, through the storage room wards, through his office door to see his quarters already exposed, the fireplace off to the side. She stopped then, suddenly nervous. Madam Pomfrey exited his room, a basin full of water in her hands.

"Is he… " Hermione couldn't finish the question. The edge of Pomfrey's lip twitched upwards and she adjusted the basin enough to free a hand to place on Hermione's shoulder.

"Not yet. Not fully, anyway. His vitals have fluctuated, and his brain waves are beginning to show signs of wakefulness. He just hasn't opened his eyes yet. I imagine it won't be much longer," the medi-witch said before leaving Hermione's side.

Hermione walked through the hole and the scraping of the fireplace as it slid back into place – coupled with the soft pops of the flames in the hearth in the bedroom – were the only sounds in the room. One could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. Part of her was surprised McGonagall wasn't here to greet her, but the more dominant part was ecstatic by the witch's absence. She knew she didn't have the right, but she wanted to be the one he saw first when he finally woke up.

She hovered by the hole for a moment before taking the few strides to the queen-size four-poster, her hands gripping the back of the chair she spent so many hours sitting in. He didn't look any different than he had over the last fourteen days. She could see that Madam Pomfrey changed his clothing. But he was still in his bed, unmoving except for the subtle up and down motion of his chest. A simple movement that many took for granted. But over the harrowing fortnight, she began to appreciate it because it meant he was still alive.

"Severus?" she whispered, her eyes flickering to the projection above his bed that monitored his vitals. She had studied it a lot; she had a lot of time to do so. And she could tell that Pomfrey was right. His brain waves were more active, his vitals becoming stronger. Shouldn't he be awake then? Shouldn't he have been sitting up and sipping on broth, the first real food to enter his system in two weeks? If his vitals were improving, why wasn't he scowling (she snorted and smiled at the thought), and demanding she leave his presence so he could retain some semblance of dignity?

She tore her eyes away from the projection, stepped around the chair, and grasped his hand in hers, squeezing it.

"Severus, can you hear me?" Hermione whispered again. She held out her free hand and ran her fingers through his soft locks, pushing his hair away from his face. She watched his features, hoping his eyes would move under their lids; hoping his breath would stutter as he became more conscious; hoping his lips would part and smack, and that he would grimace because of the inevitable uncomfortable sensation of dry mouth; hoping for… anything.

"Please, Severus, come back to me," Hermione said louder this time, squeezing his hand again. Tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes, her heart thumping in a staccato-like stutter.

"Please…" She begged, then let out a gasped sob. Letting go of his hand, she stumbled backwards into the bedside chair and felt her chest cracking with the pain. Pomfrey was wrong. He wasn't going to wake up. Any improvements in his vitals were a fluke, misjudged numbers and shapes that didn't mean a single fucking thing. She was too late. She found him too late. She stopped his bleeding too late.

Or maybe his head trauma was too bad; perhaps his brain swelled, or maybe his brain was bleeding internally. Maybe she should have cut through the skin to his skull and drilled a burr hole to relieve the pressure. She'd read about it – extensively – in those stupid Muggle medical tomes in the pursuit of stupid knowledge that was stupidly going nowhere.

Or maybe the Cruciatus was too strong… too much. Maybe it enhanced his head trauma. Maybe it made his head trauma worse than she had considered before. Than Madam Pomfrey or Professor McGonagall had even considered. She knew from research that prolonged torture could cause mental injury, most of which was irreversible. Coupled with a physical injury…

Her head lolled onto her shoulder, suddenly exhausted. Her eyes watched the flames for a minute before slowly scanning the room. The black fireplace met dark stone walls. Her eyes skipped over the bookshelves that were haphazardly organized. A desk sat next to them, smaller and less elegant than the one that occupied his office, but it was just as cluttered. To his four-poster with its black sheets, its black comforter and pillows. To him, his chest moving up and down, his fingers twitching. To…

Hermione shot up, ignoring the rush of blood to her head that made her momentarily dizzy. Fingers twitching? She scrambled away from the chair, sat on the edge of his bed, and grasped his hand, holding it in her palm. Rubbing her eyes with the back of her other hand, she stared, watching his fingers. She didn't imagine it. She knew she didn't. His pointer finger moved. She gasped, dropped his hand and reached over, cupping his face in her hands.

"Severus? Severus, can you hear me?" Her heart pounded, more tears threatening to fall. He took a deep breath. She gasped again. Then his eyes popped open and she burst into tears, her head falling to his shoulder. Her fingers ran up the sides of his face and curled into his hair, pulling at the lanky locks.

She raised her head and the first thing she saw were his black orbs piercing her honey ones. Suddenly, his hands were on hers, ripping them away from his hair. The tears stopped, confusion flooded her, but before she could even think, he cupped her face and dragged her to him, his lips landing on hers, his thumbs wiping away the tears.

Her heart stopped beating.

His lips were surprisingly soft as they pressed into hers, and he began to move them, his tongue slid along her own lips, coaxing them into motion. She closed her eyes as warmth flooded her and she kissed him back. His tongue poked at her lips and she parted them with a moan. He still tasted of spearmint, and she shivered despite the warm flood in her veins.

She didn't let their mouths break as she moved from the edge of the bed – toeing her ballet flats off on to the floor – and straddled him, leaning over him, deepening their kiss. His hands traveled to her hair, curling his fingers into her bushy locks before he loosened them to travel down her neck, down her spine, and wrapped his arms around the small of her back, pulling her into him. She gasped, breaking their kiss for only a moment as she adjusted to the new position, her body lying flush with his. She returned her attention to his lips and their combined pants as they tried to wrestle for dominance over the kiss, their tongues dancing around each other. Another tear slid down her face.

She nipped his bottom lip then and he growled, flipping them over so she was under him, the blankets wrapped around their legs, and his mouth crashed into hers once more before he broke the kiss, and trailed kisses to her jaw. She moaned when he nipped at a sensitive area between her jaw and neck, and he stilled. Her eyes popped open, the beginning feelings of dread polluting the warmth – was he going to stop? Did he suddenly realize what they were doing? – and when his eyes met hers, her breath caught in her throat.

She had never seen anything quite like the vulnerability she saw in them then.

He ran his fingers through her hair and interlaced them at the top of her head, caressing her as his onyx eyes probed her honey ones.

"It wasn't a mistake," he said huskily, his voice slightly cracking. She burst into tears, her hands swinging up to cover her face. She cried, she sobbed, her heart soared at his words, and she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down to her, their lips meeting once more.

She kicked the blanket away from her legs and wrapped them around his torso, drawing him down to her so their bodies were flush. She groaned when she felt his hard length meet her core, and he tried to adjust himself – possibly to keep her from knowing he was hard – but her legs held him against her. She broke their kiss and ran her fingers over his face, her eyes meeting his again.

His pupils were blown and hazy, his brows furrowed as he studied her, and she smiled widely, gently bringing her hips up to meet his, grinding against him. His eyes rolled, and he brought his head down to her shoulder, taking a deep breath.

"I don't know if we should –" he began, his voice muffled by the corded material of her jumper.

"I want you," Hermione interrupted. His head popped up, his eyes scouring hers. She brought his lips to hers, grinding into him again. He moaned, then flung himself out of her grasp, leaning back on his knees, his eyes roaming down her body. A shaky breath escaped her throat, and her face flushed as he eyed her lips, pausing at her chest, traveling further downward to the hem of her jumper.

He slowly leaned forward and slid his hands under the hem, and she gasped at the coolness of his hands on her warm flesh. He stilled, his eyes flicking up to hers, the question of whether he should stop flashed in them. She smiled and shook her head, reaching down to push on his hand, encouraging him to continue.

"Your hands are cold, that's all," she murmured lowly, her voice catching in her throat. His eyes quickly flicked back down to his hands and he slid them upwards, her jumper bunching around his wrists as they did, and paused at her navel – his thumb gently caressing it – before moving to her rib cage. He slid his hands around to the sides of her ribs, and up, halting by her bra. He took a deep breath.

She bit her lower lip, watching his face as he reached around and unclasped her bra. His features were concentrated and probing, then awed when he bunched her jumper by her neck and released her breasts from the cups of her bra. Her nipples instantly puckered in the coolness of the room, and he leaned back, watching his hand as his thumb lightly grazed over a nipple. The shock of it had her arch her back, and she gasped. His eyes flicked back to her and he leaned in again, quickly kissing her before palming a breast and gently kneading it. She moaned, arching her back again, and he took a nipple in his warm mouth, gently sucking on the pebbled flesh.

She reached down and tugged her jumper over her head, then threaded her arms out of the bra straps and threw it. Where it landed, she had no idea, nor did she care as his free palm met her other breast. His hands were equally as soft as his lips, she noted, and the perfect size to caress her tender flesh. He brought his attention to her other nipple, his tongue curling around it, and she couldn't help the groan that erupted from her throat.

She looked down as he leaned back again and her shaky hands came up, landing on the soft black silk of his pajama shirt and unbuttoned the first button, then the second. A brief memory of him in her dream unclasping the buttons of his high-collared coat flashed through her mind and she bit her bottom lip again, chewing it, feeling a tingle go down her spine and settle in the growing pool of warm liquid in her belly.

When she got to the third button, her eyes flicked up to his face and the unbridled desire she saw in his eyes made her groan. He knocked her hands out of the way and loosened one more button before grasping the back of the shirt, tearing it over his head. Her eyes left his, roaming over his torso appreciatively. He wasn't bulky like Ron; there were no well-defined abs or broad shoulders. But he was lean, tight threads of muscle lending some definition to his pale skin. She reached up again, starting from his collar bone and slowly trailed her fingers down his chest. He was bare, unlike in her dream where tufts of chest hair peeked out of the collar of his coat. She found the real version much more preferrable.

She slid her hands downward, stopping at the waistband of his pajama bottoms, then flicked her eyes up to gauge his reaction. He closed his eyes, but only momentarily, before opening them again – a blazing inferno reflected in them, replacing any kind of rational thought he may have had reserved. He soared down, covering her hands and her body with his own, reclaiming her mouth in a searing kiss. This one was different. This was passionate, possessive, needy.

She felt his cock rub against her hip, and she wiggled her hands free, wrapping them around his torso, lifting her hips to meet his. Somehow he managed to unbutton her jeans, using his thumbs to lower them just past her bum before running his fingertips up her thigh and around the front to the top of her knickers. He paused, broke their kiss, and then looked at her one more time for confirmation. She nearly laughed.

"You don't need to make sure I want this, Severus. I already told you I did," she said, wriggling free enough to grab his hand to shove it down her knickers, moving his fingers through her slick folds. She gasped, "But if you really need some sign that I more than want you, here it is."

His eyes blazed, and he growled, removing his hand from her folds, but only to sit back and yank down her jeans and underwear, discarding them amongst the other already forgotten articles of clothing. Then she was borne to him, and she felt beautiful under his gaze.

He wrapped his arms around her torso, kissing a hardened nipple quickly before trailing slow kisses down her stomach to her navel, pausing there, before moving lower. She bit her lower lip again, feeling her core gush in anticipation, her clit tingling, her heart racing. She felt his hands on her inner thighs, spreading them wide, and cool fingers touch her then. She gasped as a single fingertip slid down her sensitive bundle of nerves, through her folds, but stop at her core. She wriggled in impatience, her hands flinging downwards and grasped at his hair. He chuckled deeply, and she soaked up the sound, relishing in his beautiful music.

"Is this," he slid his finger into her aching core, "okay?" Her hips arched involuntarily as she held back a groan.

"Oh…" she murmured, then nodded furiously only semi-aware he couldn't see the movement. Her face flushed, but she looked down at him and she couldn't stifle another moan at the sight of him between her thighs. His eyes were concentrated on her cunt, the tip of his tongue swiping his bottom lip. Oh, gods.

He slid another digit in with the first and began to pump them slowly, in and out, her juices flooding around his fingers. Her head flung backwards, her toes curled, and a guttural sound erupted from her throat. An electric shock tore through her spine when she felt his lips latch onto her clit, his tongue circling the nub, then flattened and flicked.

"Oh, fu…" Hermione murmured as his fingers continued their slow pumping motion, his tongue lapping at her folds. She was successful in grabbing his hair this time, grasping the back of his head, her hips arching up to meet the motions of his mouth. It didn't take long before her mind shattered; white-hot pleasure exploded from her core, her body flooding with warmth, her mouth gaping open in a silent scream.

She panted, riding his fingers in the last waves of her orgasm, and watched as he crawled to his knees before extracting his fingers, his eyes flicking to hers before he slid both of them into his mouth and slowly sucked off her juices.

Holy fuck.

The corner of his mouth twitched up, and she momentarily wondered if she said it out loud. He crawled up her body like a predator, planting kisses along the way, before swooping down and kissing her lips again. He slid off to her side – not breaking their kiss – propped his head on a palm, and his hand found her inner thigh, pulling it towards him, opening her wider to his touch. She obliged, letting her knees fall open, exposing her warm cunt to the coolness of the room. He lavished her lips, exploring her mouth with his tongue, and she felt his practiced fingers play with the trimmed hair at the top of her mound before gliding his fingers across her clit again. She gasped. It was still so sensitive. He smiled against her mouth and he slowly slid them down her folds, dipped two fingers quickly into her core, then rubbed small circles around her nub.

"Severus," she pleaded, her hips arching once more to meet his hand, "I need you." Her head flopped over, her eyes meeting his, then her fingers ghosted down his chest, past his navel, and fingered the waistband of his pajamas before reaching just a little lower to grab his length. He grunted.

He was big. Not that she had more than one man to compare him to, but as she began to stroke him, her thumb playing with the tip of his head, he swelled even more and her fingertips weren't able to touch. She turned on her side, flung a leg over his hip – she gasped when his fingers darted inside her again – and tugged his bottoms down, his cock flopping out and slid between their bellies.

She broke eye contact to look down at him, her eyes slightly widening at the sight. He was beautiful. How cliché, but he was. His cock jutted out proudly, a smattering of black curls at its base, and he was as smooth as the silk of his pajamas. She stroked him again, earning a deep, throaty groan in response. She bit her lip, suddenly tempted to taste him, and she flicked her eyes up to his. He was watching her through hooded eyes, his mouth slightly parted in pleasure, his lips twitching with every stroke.

"Can I… can I taste you?" she asked, her heart thumping, the constant fear of rejection beginning to surface. They've already done so much, yet this seemed so much more intimate. Would he let her?

His eyes met hers, and there was only a brief hesitancy before the nigh imperceptible nod. She exhaled a small breath, and smiled, the fear of rejection flittering to the back of her mind once again. Reaching down to remove his fingers from her core, she gently pushed him onto his back. She straddled his knees, taking a moment to drink him in. His creamy skin was a stark contrast to his black bedding, his long hair lost in the color, and he was staring at her, watching her, the trust in his eyes was almost enough to make her weep.

She leaned forward, planting a feather-soft kiss on his navel before her attention was averted to his own nipples, the tiny buttons of flesh puckering in the coolness of the room. Her thumbs flicked over them before her fingertips glid down his torso, pausing at the small trail of hair underneath his navel. One finger traveled down it to his pubic hair before she grasped his cock in her hand. She saw his eyes close, his breath hitch in his chest, and she leaned down then, placing a kiss against the tip. He exhaled a small breath.

She smiled, leaving her hand at the base of his cock, and wrapped her lips around the head and sucked gently. He gasped audibly, and she felt a hand grab a fistful of her locks. She took him then, slowly sliding her lips down his length, her tongue running along the vein. She didn't even reach her hand before he hit the back of her throat, and she dragged her lips back up him, pausing to suck him into her throat. His hand curled in her hair, his hips twitching upwards. She smiled again, and bobbed her head before releasing him with a pop. His eyes flicked to her, his pupils blown with lust, and she moved her hand from the base of his cock and slid it upwards, adding just enough pressure to make him grunt.

Suddenly, he sat up and tore her hand away from him, grabbed her hips and pulled her up his legs, situating her over his cock. He kissed her and she could feel the tip of his head line up with her entrance, pressing in only minutely before he stopped again.

"Are you absolutely –" he started, but cut off and groaned when she lowered her hips down, his tip stretching her. The sensation of him filling her, widening her wasn't comfortable, but it didn't hurt, either. Not like she imagined it would, anyway. She pulled up again, relaxing into the position, adjusting to the newness of him inside her before she tried to lower herself on him again. She didn't get far before he rolled them over – him half-sheathed in her core – and he wrapped her legs around his torso, tilting her hips upwards, and lowered over her until her breasts were flush with his chest, and rested on his forearms.

"I'll go slow," he murmured, capturing her mouth in a kiss that made her knees tremble before he inched in, pausing as needed to let her adjust to his size. She gasped at the sharp pain that shot up her spine. He stopped, breaking their kiss and met her eyes. She swallowed.

"I'm fine," she murmured, burrowing her head in the crook of his neck, tightening her legs around his hips, pulling him in closer to her. He dipped down to kiss her ear, inching in just a little more until he bottomed out. They both moaned. Her eyes rolled back as she wriggled her hips, locking one ankle around the other and pulling her hips up to meet his. He felt so good; he stretched her deliciously. He began to move again, pulling out and then pushing in. Oh, that felt good. He did it again, slowly thrusting in and out, bottoming out each time with a snap of his hips. She closed her eyes, mouth gaping, and fell back onto the bed as he began to speed up.

"Oh, Sev… Oh… I need – harder, I think," she panted, bringing her hands to his head, pulling him in for a kiss. He crushed his lips to hers, then his lips parted, panting as he picked up the momentum. He obliged her, rocking his hips back, then meeting hers, his cock filling her with delicious friction, and she felt something building up in her, some pleasurable pressure that began to surge with each delectable thrust of his thick cock.

She curled her hands into his hair, her head pressing into the mattress, digging her heels into his torso. He kept thrusting, skin slapping against skin, and she panted and moaned, feeling like she was on the cusp of something exceptionally large. He leaned back then, pausing his movements for only a minute before settling her arse on top of his thighs, and thrust again. Oh, that angle – his cock hit something, something that sent shivers up her spine. His thumb met her clit and circled the sensitive nub, rubbing it, flicking it. She exploded unexpectedly with a scream, the pleasure sending sparks to her fingertips, to her toes, and her cunt fluttered, squeezing him. He groaned, slamming his hips into hers, chasing his own release.

It didn't take long before he moaned out an, "Oh, gods," and his release filled her with another sharp thrust. He collapsed on her, his cock twitching, her cunt still fluttering, soaking him up. His hands slid under and he held her, his face in the crook of her neck, his hot pants tickling her sensitive skin. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him, leaning into his hair, kissing him on his head.

It took several minutes, but he unwrapped his arms from around her and reached up to unclasp her legs from his torso. She forgot they were latched around him and she let them drop; they felt like lead. In a good way. He started to pull away and she unclasped her hands, letting them fall, too. Her body felt magnificent, sated, luscious, exhausted for all the right reasons, and as her eyes began to close, she felt the bed dip, then a downy soft blanket replaced his warm body. She sighed happily.

"I think I love you."

Trigger warning: Torture, though not terribly descriptive (I would label it mild).

Chapter rating: For explicit sexual content and lewd language.

Author's Note (TO READ AFTER THE CHAPTER): First of all – literally half this chapter is sexual in nature. You're welcome. 😉 FINALLY, am I right? I promised you all I would deliver a lengthier chapter since you had to wait, and I hope it was worth it!

Secondly, I am SO sorry for the wait. I didn't mean for it to take so long, but we were busy at my in-laws and then I got caught up in some reading, but I really made it a goal to get it out before (American) Thanksgiving. To my fellow Americans – Happy Turkey Day!

Thirdly, THANK YOU so much for reading, commenting, reviewing. They make my day, truly!