Author's Note:  Thanks and praise to that most excellent of beta readers, Ozratbag2, whose knowledge of things medical, romantic, psychological and literary helped me to produce this difficult chapter, and whose understanding of what the reader needs to experience is incredible.  Brava!  Galleons! - DN

Chapter 12:  "I Call Him Archibald"

Snape looked around at his bedchamber.  House elves kept it clean; he kept it Spartanly tidy.  A wardrobe, a straight-backed chair, a cupboard, and his large four-poster bed with a small table next to it were all the furnishings he allowed himself.  He drew back the bed's dark green silk curtains, rolled back the black tapestry counterpane, and turned down the sides of the black velvet-covered comforter.  The black satin sheets shone.  He rearranged the many pillows, and then put fresh candles into the candelabrum on the bedside table.

All in all, he observed, not very seductive: menacing, if anything.  Perhaps if he opened the window…he drew back the curtains and flung back both panes.  Moonlight flooded in, and the lilting song of a nightingale.  That's a little better.  He pointed his finger at his cold hearth:  Fulgens, and a crackling fire blazed, the candles glowed.  Still better.

He looked at his pendulum clock:  she would be here any minute. 

What should I do? Severus wondered to himself.  I know how she feels when she's making love, assuming that that's what I was supposed to learn from the Druid.  What do I do to make her feel like that?  How can I give her so much pleasure that she will come to me, seek me out?  Why must the man always be the initiator?

He put his long legs up and propped his feet on his desk, balancing on the end of his spine, slouched down in his desk chair.  He steepled his fingers and racked his brains, trying to recall the dream in which Brigit McDiarmaidh had taught him a proper lesson. 

She boxed my ear!  She tore off my clothing and dragged off my breeches with her teeth; she tossed me around as if I weighed nothing and bullied me to her will. 

He could remember her kiss, soft and gentle, nothing like the rough treatment she subjected him to otherwise. 

I suppose she could have manacled me to the bedstead, beaten me with a whip, tormented me by chewing on various body parts until I was bloody.  He recalled that he himself had done these very things to helpless women, and worse.  His head ached.

During his years as a loyal Death Eater, he had used many poor creatures in the most bestial way. Those whose necks he had wrung or otherwise put out of their misery were fortunate.  There was no crime too heinous, no revel too degraded for him to participate in with fervour, as he sought to steep himself in the Dark Lord's sump of evil.  He had thought he had successfully subdued his humanity enough to dispense with compassion, to be able to accept humiliation and punishment as his due.  Yet it was that very humanity that had, at the end, sent him to Azkaban and from there to Albus Dumbledore, to become a double agent against Voldemort.

With shame, he remembered the hideous last act of cruelty and his own depraved reaction to it that had sent him over the edge.  He visualised the unholy team of himself and Lucius Malfoy, courting Voldemort's favour by jointly raping a young victim, he lying on his back with the maiden impaled on his straining prod, and Lucius pushing her over onto his chest and violating her back passage at the same time. The sensation of the other man's rapid thrusts separated from his own by only a thin membrane had driven him to frenzy, and he had torn at the girl's tender neck with his teeth.  Then he felt Lucius' thin hard hands clutching at his sac, squeezing his testicles together, and he climaxed, biting through the jugular vein. The dark blood filled his mouth. 

Bile filled his mouth, and he bolted for his bathroom and retched until he had nothing left in him.  And this was the body that Hermione craved, this the mouth she kissed? How could she? But she had. And now she was coming to his rooms, at his invitation, for an "anatomy lesson!"  What had he to teach her?  Ruefully, he recalled that Brigit McDiarmaidh had said, "Ye shall know what I know."  She had not said, "Ye shall know what I want ye to know." And he knew pitifully little.  He had meant it when he said to Hermione, "Where do I begin with you?"

Wait a minute, old man.  You do know what to do:  you said to her, "Come and give me a kiss." She did.  That's how you begin.

It comes from the spirit.  His spirit, his soul, reached out and clasped the spirit and soul of Hermione Granger, and he knew he was safe.  A Muggle philosopher whose name he could not recall, said, "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well."  He washed his face and brushed his teeth.  He commanded his radio to play, and Brahms filled his rooms.

~*~

Hermione looked in her mirror.

"You might fluff out your hair a little on the top, dear," said the mirror.  "It gives you such a pretty look." 

She stuck her tongue out at the mirror. "I hate my hair."

"Now, dear, your hair's lovely.  Master Snape loves your hair."

"He doesn't have to do battle with it every day, as I do," scowled Hermione, trying to get a brush through a particularly badly snarled curl.  She looked as if she had been caught in a tornado, she thought, and finally gave up.  She wetted her hands and patted her unruly mop down a little.

Half the clothes in her wardrobe were on her bed.  What should she wear?  "If you ask me, dear, you should wear your holiday robes with the Head Girl emblem, the outfit you wore to the Halloween Ball."

"I didn't ask you," replied Hermione, holding up a long blue dress against herself, and then flinging it back on the bed.

"You didn't let me finish, dear," continued the mirror.  "The formal holiday robes, over your new silk underclothes."

Hermione blushed.  Her last trip to Hogsmeade, in the company of Ginny and half the female Weasley family, had resulted in a number of purchases she hoped she wouldn't regret, amongst them a French silk camisole and knickers, pale salmon pink, with heavy ecru lace.  The camisole barely covered her breasts; the knickers were little more than a silk and lace triangle in front, and a thin silk thong in back, held to the front by narrow ruffles on the sides.

"Sexy, aren't they?" said the saleswoman, a blowsy blonde witch with a stupefying bosom barely contained by her green velvet bodice.

"Oh, go on!" cried Ginny.  "They'll be splendid under your uniform, and it'll be a giggle, because no-one will know you're wearing them but you!"

If she only knew, thought Hermione, and bought the set.  She bathed quickly and put on the new garments.  The thong felt strange:  she looked over her shoulder at her image in the mirror.  "Cor! My bum's naked!"

"Oh, it's all the style, dear," said the mirror.  "Isn't it a bit uncomfortable, though?"

"I suppose one gets used to it," answered Hermione.  She put on her elaborate formal robe, and looked in the mirror one last time.  Yes, it was perfect; she was properly dressed for her journey, a voyage of discovery between equals.

Crookshanks meowed loudly at her from the centre of her bed.

"Wish me luck, Crook," she called, as she shut the door.

She descended the narrow, curving stairway that led to the dungeons.

Should I have brought a bottle of wine with me?  No, that's absurd.  A cake?  Even more so.

 She was nervous, more nervous than she had been in her entire life.  She passed a portrait of some long-ago Mistress: the portly woman turned to her from the scroll she had been reading, smiled a gap-toothed smile and gave her a double "thumbs-up."  She shivered as she reached the bottom of the stairway and a cold draught blew at her from the tunnel-like corridor.

What are you afraid of? The Runes Mistress explained to you that it doesn't have to hurt, didn't she? 

Why was she thinking about lovemaking as if it were an uncomfortable medical procedure?  She recalled her previous experiences; they were anything but reassuring.  Ron Weasley had been her first boyfriend, and although he kissed her very sweetly, his clumsy hands grabbing her here and there did little to put her in a romantic frame of mind.  Ron had gotten a little more skilful as they grew older, but she felt no answering pulse in her groin when he put his arms around her, no opening when he touched her.  Finally, she had had to make it clear to them that they were better off as chums.

Viktor, by comparison, was a man of the world.  He knew that if he ran his thumbnail slowly up her spine she would press against him, her pulse beginning to pound.  He knew where to touch her and elicit shivers and gasps.  But his attempt to possess her had ended in failure: instead of warming and liquefying to his caresses, her body had clamped itself shut before he had even begun to enter her.  Perhaps, she reasoned, she was one of those witches who must remain a maiden, celibate, to concentrate her powers.  But in her dreams, in her fantasies she gave herself repeatedly and unreservedly to a lover who brought her to the edge of the abyss of passion and over; holding her, moving with her until her she detonated into a million little moving points of light around the supernova that was he (a line she thought she remembered from some Muggle bodice-ripper of a romance novel).  As long as my troth is to a phantom lover, how can a real man take my hand?

That phantom lover was now and had been, from the time she was fifteen, Severus Snape. She had despaired of ever realizing her fantasies; even before she realised that she loved him, he had been the unreachable object of her passion.  She tried to shut him out, but she could not:  it was as if he was so enmeshed in the fibre of her being that her hands were his hands, her body his body, and many a night she wept, furious at herself and at him, because once again he had carried her to the centre of the universe and hurled her into a pin wheeling nebula, where she revolved in the arms of the galaxies, her vibrations creating worlds.

No human man could do that, she thought. Severus Snape is human, he's not a creature of my imagination, and I can't mould him into my dream image.  Am I doomed to disappointment yet again?

She caught herself up short:  did she not love the real man?  Nasty temperament, boiling anger, vengeful and arbitrary, cruel and cold, greasy hair and all – did she not love him in spite of his obvious flaws?   Lost in a strange world, cold and frightened, had she not put her arms around him and felt his skin on hers, and she not been ready to give herself repeatedly and unreservedly to the real man?

The door to Snape's chambers was closed.  As she stood in front of it, it opened slowly.  She heard faint music, smelled incense.  She drew herself up, head high.  He loves you; she heard the musical voice of the Runes Mistress. Hermione smiled and stepped inside.

Severus Snape was standing in front of his sitting-room hearth.  He held out his hand to her, and when she took it, he realised she was ice-cold.  We're both terrified, he thought.  He led her over to the settee, and they sat down.  She was shivering.

"Well, Miss Granger," he said, looking down at her, "isn't this how we last found ourselves, cold and frightened?"  He was astonished at his own courage.  Her hand tightened on his.

"Yes," she answered.  "Can you please call me Hermione?"

"I can.  This is difficult – Hermione.  We must help one another."

She stared at him, amazed.  "That was brave of you; I've been struggling with the same thought all day.  Thank you for saying it."

He looked down.  "You can't imagine what I've been thinking all day.  I've never had anyone trust me before (well, with the exception of Dumbledore), but you are trusting me with yourself, with your life.  I am not used to feeling humble." 

"Neither am I.  Gryffindors tend to be self-righteous do-gooders, you know."

"I do know indeed." He turned her hand in his, and she touched his face.

She stood up.  "Please, put your arms around me, Severus," she said, and he stood as well, enfolding her in his arms.  She pressed her face into his jacket, which smelt of herbs and chemicals and, faintly, sandalwood and lavender.  "I can't feel you at all through all this thick wool," she said.

"Tactful, aren't you?  As I recall, you commanded me to take off my underclothes."

"I did no such thing!" she cried indignantly.  "I asked you to please take off your underclothes."

"And then made great sport of them withal."

"Did not! Well, they were worthy of it."

"I suspect yours are not worth a fig, if the dismal garments you wore to the Potions Masters' Conference were any indication—"

"You took them off me!"

"Capital idea!" 

She sniggered helplessly.  Gods, he could be funny when he chose to be! 

"Well? Are you going to do it again?

She could have sworn she saw a twinkle in his black eyes.  "I shall be right back."  And he disappeared into his chamber. 

Hermione paced back and forth in front of the fire.  After a few minutes, she grew concerned.

"Severus?" she called.  "You said you'd be right back."

"In here," his voice came from the other room.  She walked over to the door, which swung open in front of her.  The music was a little louder: there, on a shelf, was a Muggle radio.  Fire blazed in the room's hearth, casting a friendly golden light over the sombre black and dark green furnishings.  Moonlight streamed through the open window. 

There stood the bed, its curtains drawn.  She could see the flicker of candlelight faintly through the dark green curtains.

 "Severus?"

A long hand reached through the curtains and drew them back.  She gasped.  He lay on the black sheets, uncovered to his waist, his body white as ivory.  "Please come to bed."

Hermione, her hands shaking, undid her robes, and then took off her shoes and stockings.  She stood before him in her new French silk undergarments.  He held the covers up for her to get in, and took her in his arms.

 "Now," he murmured into her ear, "what delights have you for me?  Frozen feet? Ah, I see: sexy French scanties?"

She ran her hand over his chest and around to his back.  His skin was velvet smooth, with some little hard lines and ridges here and there.  Her heart clenched:  torture marks.  She put her lips on his collarbone and kissed her way up to his mouth. 

Snape put his hands on her ribs and pulled her camisole off over her head.  He tossed it on the floor, and put his long hands on her shoulders, then drew them down slowly.  He bent his head to her breasts and kissed them gently, first one, then the other. 

"Do you like that?"

"Oh, yes, more please."  Hermione clasped her arms around his head and held him to her. Then she wriggled downward in his arms and kissed his chest, softly.  She found his small nipple with her tongue, circled it and teased it to attention. 

He gasped  "More," he breathed, and she did more, covering his wet nipple with her palm, finding the other one, and making it wet and erect.  She looked up at him:  "Do it to me?"

"With pleasure," he said, and she cried out, as he drew her nipple between his lips.  The inside of his mouth, as well as his tongue, was warm and wet and soft.  She began to feel his caress elsewhere, to her astonishment, and she told him so:  "I feel your tongue and your lips here—" and she guided his hand to the inside of her thigh.

Snape raised his head and looked in her eyes.  "Are you ready for that anatomy lesson I offered you?" he asked.

"I am ready for anything you offer me," she said.  He leaned over and kissed her mouth deliberately, his tongue stroking the inside of her lower lip and then circling her tongue. Gentle fingers strayed amongst her curly pubic hairs, and she shivered.

"Are you ready to make the acquaintance of the Slytherin Snake?"

"I would like to know more of the slithering tongue first," she said, and he rolled over on his back, taking her with him. She leaned over him, brushing his chest with her breasts, and he put his hands on her waist.  He kissed her chin and neck, slowly, slowly, and she shuddered with pleasure and put her hands in his hair.  He's washed his hair, it feels like silk.  Her breasts, her ribs, her stomach, he kept moving her upwards, tasting her, until she sat on his chest, and she could feel his heartbeat against her buttocks, his warm breath on her mound.

"Naughty girl, to block my way with these silly little drawers," and with one swift movement, he ripped the French thong panties from her body, threw them away, and brought her pink rose secrets to his mouth.  Hermione screamed, her back arched and she clutched his head in her hands.  How did I know how to do this?  He wondered, as she trembled and opened under his touch.

She did not want him to stop, but he lifted her to rest on her side, and he wrapped her in his arms.  "That was incredible," she whispered to him.

"You shall have more, I promise. Now, do it to me," he murmured.

She raised herself on her elbow and placed her hand on his chest, following the silky black hair with her finger, down to the softness of his white stomach and the black curls…and there, in front of her face, was the marvellous toy, its soft, broad head glistening with lubrication.

She ran her finger around the ridge below the head; the skin was soft and fine. 

 "What is it called?" she whispered. She glanced up at him; he was smiling.

"I call him Archibald, for he has no hair on his head," he purred, and she buried her face in his stomach, her shoulders shaking, not daring to laugh aloud.  "Now, see, he wants to be your friend; give him a kiss."She put her hand around his erect penis, feeling its heat and power, and lowered her head with excruciating slowness, watching Severus' face out of the corner of her eye.  She curled her tongue around the head.  The little smiling slit opened at the touch of her lips, and she tasted a drop of salty-sweet lubrication.  Gently, she took the head into her mouth and sucked upon it; its spongy softness was most agreeable.  She drew a little more into her mouth, beginning to encompass the curved, pulsating shaft with its fascinating veined surface.  She felt Severus' hands in her hair.  She withdrew, and looked at him; his eyes were closed, his head back, and he looked as if he were dreaming.  "Severus?"

"Yes, love, don't stop," he breathed raggedly.

She circled the head with her tongue, took as much of him as she could into her mouth.  Her hands found his soft sac; she felt the two ovals within.  Severus groaned loudly.  "Am I hurting you?"

One of his hands found her leg, and a long finger moved ticklingly along the inside of her thigh.  "No, not hurting me, I love it, more…"

Hermione moved closer to him, and turned him on his side.  He put his hands on her legs, and parted them.  Again, she grasped him in her hand and moved the intriguing loose skin up and down the shaft, gently, at first slowly and then more rapidly, as she teased the head with her tongue.  Severus' hips began to move. "More, more…"

"Greedy, aren't you, " she said. "Well, so am I."

Severus' questing finger found and opened her outer lips, with thumb and forefinger he caught her nub and began to squeeze it rhythmically.  Then he leaned forward and slid his long tongue into her passage.  He found only a slight resistance and pressed past it, as far as his tongue could reach, then he withdrew it and sucked the soft frilled tissues, trembling against his lips. He slipped his finger inside her.  Hermione's hips had begun to move, and unexpectedly, her passage clenched his finger and drew it deeply into herself, her nub pulsated in his mouth and her back arched.  She shrieked, and her hips thrust hard, hard: he felt and tasted a brief gush of hot, salty fluid.  The one hand that was not otherwise busy moved up her body to her breast.  He took her nipple between thumb and forefinger and squeezed it rhythmically, and he felt her orgasm peak, drop and then peak again.  She was ready to receive him.  "Make me wet," he murmured, and she bathed his shaft with her tongue until, from base to tip, it was drenched and shining.

Severus turned her around so that they were face to face.  They kissed, tasting each other on each other's mouths.  Hermione's eyes shone, and she stroked his face. "I am yours," she said, "and you are mine."

Snape positioned himself between her legs.  She guided him into her body, pushing forwards against the softness of the glans and the hardness of the shaft, and he entered her slowly, slowly, until his pelvic bone met hers.  The muscles of her passage clasped him firmly.  He put his hand under her thigh to raise her leg, and she put her hand over his.

"Let me rest a moment," she whispered.  "So full…"

His wand jerked inside her, eager to dance.  He moved his hips in a small circle, eliciting a gasp from her and a responding movement, rubbing her soft tissues against his hardness.  They moved together in the rhythm of their own dance of love, and she put her legs around his waist, encircled him with her arms.  He kissed her lips, her nose, her cheeks.

He was about to erupt, like a volcano:  every muscle in his body quivered, and the pounding in his aching testicles drove him, harder and harder, faster and faster, until he could hold back no longer, and stiffened, groaning, moaning her name, "Hermione!  Hermione!" as he climaxed, cradled in her arms and legs and body, loved and sheltered, and he prayed, in that moment of exaltation:  thank you, thank you, Mother, I give you this ecstasy as my offering.

~*~

 "You are beautiful," he said.  "I've always thought you beautiful."

'Even when you were ready to murder me?"

"Especially then. But not as you are now."

"Is it different, Severus?  Am I different?"

:"I am.  I never understood what 'lovemaking' meant.  I do now."

She considered, playing with the black hair on his chest.  "This is the first time I've ever really made love.  What I did before was childish groping, it wasn't what I wanted to do."

Severus touched her face, traced his finger around her forehead, her nose, the little cleft of her chin.  "I am humbled," he told her.  "I never dreamed that love would feel like this. You are flesh of my flesh, so mysterious, so familiar…"

Hermione saw the tenderness on his face, the unaccustomed vulnerability, and her eyes filled with tears.  It was as if he was so enmeshed in the fibre of her being that her hands were his hands, her body his body…"I loved you before I understood you," she said softly.

 "I love you.  I loved you even when I called you a stupid little girl, and a rotten little thing. I've loved you without knowing that I did, and you'll be smugly pleased to know it's my first time."

Her eyes danced.  "If I look back over the past seven years, I see that I've loved you for at least five of those years.  I just didn't know what to call it, when you trust someone so wholly that you would give your life for them."

"You almost did, several times."

"As you did for me."

"We should try to sleep."  She pushed him over on his side, his back to her, put her arm around him, and drew him against her, like a spoon nesting with another spoon.

"Hecate's tits, man, your legs are long."

A snort of laughter, and he twined his long legs with hers.

***