See disclaimers on Chapter 1

Chapter 4

He was not a gentle lover.

It was not really a surprise. Part of her realized she had not expected him to be, knowing instinctively that even in this, the most intimate act one could share with another, he would be as harsh and domineering as he was while standing in front of his classroom. It was his way, she had known that for seven years now. Yet, another part of her was disappointed that her first time had been so mechanical, so unlike the deeply passionate experience she had always hoped it would be.

Her stomach fluttered with a swarm of butterflies as they reached the top of the stairs. The room Snape led her into was small and modestly furnished, boasting only a bed, a bookcase and a few armchairs. One corner was dominated by a desk made of dark wood, which sat facing the window overlooking the village. She could see the spires of Hogwarts glowing eerily on the horizon as the sun prepared to set behind them. Another of the walls was taken up by a large hearth holding a few pieces of charred firewood. The air was permeated with his unique scent, and even if she hadn't known the room was his she would have been able to tell it was a place he considered home by the way he possessed it.

She stood uncertainly in the doorway as he brushed past her, waving the door shut with a muttered charm. Carelessly he swept off his outer robes, tossing them over a high-backed chair as he passed it. Beneath, he wore only black trousers and a white shirt bearing ruffles at the neck and cuffs of each sleeve.

"Come," he said quietly, extending one hand toward her.

She approached him tentatively, removing her outer robes and laying them on his as she passed the chair, their garments joined before they were. When she was within reach he pulled her against his chest, wrapping one arm around her and burying the other hand in her hair. Then he kissed her – a hard, wild kiss, devoid of affection, so unlike the gentle embrace they had shared earlier. The decision now made he acted without hesitation, just as he did in all aspects of his life. His lips and tongue were hard against hers and she gave herself up to them, turning control of the situation over to him with the certain knowledge that if she hadn't, he would have taken it anyway.

It felt good – exquisite even – to feel his fingers and lips strong and purposeful on her body. How much more intense it was to be caressed by another than it was to do it herself! And he obviously knew what he was doing, knew all the right places to explore and to tease and to taste. But he also seemed in a great hurry to have the act completed, driven, she supposed, by needs which had gone too long unsatisfied. Her body was prepared to accept him long before her mind was. Physically aroused by the rough handling and the fiery gleam in his eye, she reeled mentally at how fast everything was happening.

With few preliminaries he undressed her and threw back the bedcovers, gazing at her in frank appreciation as she reclined against the down pillows. His bold appraisal unnerved her, and she fought the urge to pull the sheets over herself as he slithered out of his clothes. She had little time to observe his unfettered form before he sank down next to her on the bed, murmuring something she could not understand.

Almost immediately he rolled on top of her, bracing himself on his hands as he pushed her thighs apart with his knee. She could feel his erection rubbing against the damp curls between her legs, and she gripped his shoulders, simultaneously trying to draw him nearer and push him away. He drove his hips forward and entered her forcefully, battering against the proof her virginity.

Encountering it seemed to bring him back to his senses for a moment, and he looked down at her incredulously. "Gods, Hermione, are you –"

"Not for long," she replied, cutting him off in mid-sentence. Their eyes locked and she nodded, muscles tensing in anticipation.

And then he was pushing forward again, stabbing through the barrier to embed himself within her.

She gasped at the sudden sharp pain, arching beneath him in an attempt to reject his invading flesh. But the pain was quickly forgotten as he began to move atop her, displaced by a small spark of pleasure that grew more delicious with each thrust. Soon she was raising her pelvis up to his, their bodies meeting over and over again with muted thwacks.

Just as she had discovered the best way to position her hips in order to maximize the delectable friction, Snape's breaths changed from shallow panting to throaty grunts and finally to an agonized groan. He ground against her, muscles twitching as his erection pulsed between her legs. She watched his face contort in the combined pleasure and pain of his orgasm, fascinated at the change in his features yet dismayed that it was over almost before it had begun.

And then he withdrew, flopping down on the bed next to her and fighting to catch his breath. She was left empty and unfulfilled, the juncture between her legs aching with the physical pain of lost innocence and the frustration of being denied completion.

Snape now lay asleep beside her, his tangled hair a dark contrast to the white pillowcase on which it rested. She didn't have enough experience with men to know that they had been falling asleep on their women after sex since the beginning of time, and so she could not help but take it personally that he had dropped off almost immediately after hitting the mattress.

How disappointing, she thought, studying his profile in the fading light. Is this all there is to sex?

What was all the fuss about? Why had Lavender and Parvati giggled about it endlessly in their dorm room for three years until Hermione's nerves were at the breaking point? What had Ron and Harry found so fascinating that they would even give up discussing Quidditch to talk about it in the most graphic terms imaginable?

It must be different for men, she thought ruefully, contracting her thighs around the sticky remains of his climax. I just don't get it.

Still, she had to admit that it had been intoxicating to be so close to him. Tiny streams of the power she coveted had flowed between them as he moved above her and it was thrilling, though she could tell that even in this most unguarded of moments he had kept it under tight rein. She wondered if they would ever reach a point where he dropped that control and let it course over and through her, filling her mind as his flesh filled her body.

Because she knew that regardless of how disappointing this experience had been, she wanted more.

He shifted in his sleep, rolling on to his side toward her, seeking her warmth as his eyes twitched beneath their lids. She hoped his dream was a pleasant one. If what she'd sensed in him downstairs was a true reflection of what he'd been through, he needed it.

And deserved it.

She watched him sleep for a long time, entranced by how peaceful he looked. Someone seeing him for the first time in this condition would be hard pressed to imagine that anything other than gentle words ever left his mouth. The worried furrow that lived between his brows was smoothed, his customary sneer lost in a sensual pout that made her want to kiss him again, though she resisted the urge for fear of waking him. He almost looks handsome, she thought, stifling a giggle at what Ron's reaction would be if she told him that.

Then he moved again, this time turning over on his back and throwing his left hand up onto the pillow beside his head. The skin around his Mark was still red, but the swelling had gone down appreciably and it was easier to make out the details of the design now. It was curious – if she hadn't known the significance of it, she might have thought it looked no worse than some of the body art one might see while walking the streets of Muggle London. But this was different, terribly different. The tattoo artists of London were unable to control their customers via their work, unable to make it burn them into madness once their needles withdrew. It might be possible to forget you even had a tattoo over time. But this was not the case with the Mark. It left its imprint on the soul and brain and marrow moreso than on the skin.

Her thoughts turned to the flood of sensation she experienced earlier when her fingers brushed over it. What was it she felt? And could she feel it again?

Did she want to feel it again?

Yes she did, she decided. If for no other reason than to gain a better understanding of the man now sharing his bed with her.

Tentatively she reached toward the Mark, palm hovering for a moment as she gathered her nerve. Then she laid her hand upon it, fingers gently curling around his forearm.

Immediately the impressions filled her head again, swirling lazily around her brain with far less energy than they had downstairs. This time the shouting, crying voices sounded as though they were underwater or reaching her ears from a great distance. She closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to make out what they were saying, without success. She gripped his arm harder and the sounds came closer, as though the speakers were running toward her, and finally a single word became discernible: an anguished voice shouting "NO!" over and over again. Though distorted, the voice was familiar and she felt she could figure out who it belonged to if she could only wrap her mind around it a moment longer…

She gasped as his arm was jerked from beneath her fingers and her eyes flew open to find Snape staring at her with dark, quiet eyes. The echo of that wretched cry dissipated around the edges of her thoughts.

"You're awake," she said unnecessarily. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"What do you think you were doing?" he replied, his customarily aloof facial expression sliding down over his features. It was disconcerting to see how quickly it reasserted itself after he awoke.

"I… I was curious about the sensations I had earlier, downstairs. I wanted to see if it would happen again."

"I hope the results of your experiment were satisfactory," he said with a touch of sarcasm, stifling a yawn. "You interrupted a perfectly lovely dream." He scrubbed one eye with the heel of his hand, then turned back toward her, tucking his hand under the pillow to give additional support to his head.

She smoothed the hair off his forehead, letting her fingers linger in his hair a bit longer than was strictly necessary to get the job done. He flinched at the contact, and for a moment she thought he might wave her away. But in the end, he allowed her to continue.

"Go back to sleep," she said softly. "Maybe you'll get your dream back."

"It doesn't work that way, not for me," he replied. "The only dreams I ever get back once I'm awakened are the nightmares."

She smiled, watching his face relax as she continued stroking his hair.

"I suppose I owe you an apology," he said dryly, shocking her so much that she snatched her hand away in surprise. "I believe I was a bit… quick with you earlier. An atypical performance, I assure you. The only excuse I have is that it has been a very long time since I have been intimate with a woman, and it appears that in the interim I have become an old man."


She laughed. "Hardly that."

"Well, I feel immensely old. I haven't had to keep up with an 18 year old girl since… well actually I've never had to keep up with an 18 year old girl."

Another laugh as she reached out to tangle her fingers in his hair once more. "You can make it up to me next time."

The corners of his mouth jerked upwards for a moment and she grinned back, delighted. First an apology, then a joke and now this ghost of a smile – who was this stranger she had known for seven years?

He closed his eyes as she gently massaged his scalp, so silent then that she thought he had heeded her advice and decided to try and re-take his dream. Achy and bone tired, she was suddenly desperate for sleep herself, but when she closed her eyes, she found she was unable to relax. It didn't feel comfortable sleeping beside him, not just yet. It was all too new, this transformation from oppressive authority figure to lover.

Besides, her thoughts were racing as she reflected on the day's incredible turn of events and they would not be calmed. She stared at the wall beyond Snape's still form, replaying the scenes in her mind – the train speeding away from Hogsmeade station, the gleam in Rosmerta's eye as they conversed, Snape's dark figure hunched in the back booth, the undulation of the Mark as she soothed it with the butter.

The voices. That desperate scream.

And then it came to her: the tormented voice that had sounded so familiar… it was Harry's. Screaming out in pain or loss or anger, or in some combination of the three.

Why should she hear Harry's voice? Had he ever really shouted that way? And under what circumstances?

She tensed, stilling the movements of her fingers in his hair. This roused him and he opened his eyes to see her brow wrinkling in confusion, a stricken look on her face.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"I heard Harry's voice," she responded uncertainly. "When I touched your Mark just now, I heard Harry's voice." With a great effort, she focused her attention on his dark eyes. "What was that?"

This time he did shrug her hand away from his hair. Sighing deeply by way of reply, he rolled over on to his back.

"What was it?" she demanded. "What's happening to me?"

"I cannot be sure," he answered in a tone that led her to know he was not being completely truthful with her. "But it appears we must consider the possibility that you… are an Empath."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

He turned his head to glare at her, then sat up in the bed. "My gift to you, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, slipping unconsciously into his professorial role. "Something for you to research in that beloved library of yours. And now, if you do not intend to sleep here I would suggest you make your way back to Hogwarts. It has been a most exhausting afternoon and I will be unable to sleep if you insist on chattering the evening away."

It was a dismissal, and it stung. The door that had opened between them was now inexplicably slamming shut once again. She jumped out of the bed and hunted up her clothes, dressing quickly as he watched from his perch among the pillows. He did not speak again until she was on her way toward the door.

"I believe it would be best if we did not speak of this to anyone at Hogwarts," he said quietly, halting her in mid-stride.

"No worries, Severus," she replied, his name rolling off her tongue for the first time. It felt strange in her mouth. "I doubt anyone would believe it, anyway."

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked through the doorway, leaving Snape alone with his worries and doubts.

A/N: The first three chapters of this story were written in response to the Seducing Severus Snape challenge on the WIKTT mailing list. I had originally intended to stop writing it after those chapters were finished, but as I thought about it some more, I realized there was potential here for a much longer fic. This chapter lays the groundwork for what is to come.

Many thanks to Quillusion for taking the time to kick around a few plot points with me!