By Adriana
trixielou60@hotmail.com
Author's Note: One of my reviewers thought it would be great if someone were to draw a picture of Severus Snape rising out of the water, all wet and glorious . . . the only thing I could picture was Snape on an oyster half-shell, perched on the surface of the sea, his hands discreetly covering himself between the legs. A wonderful idea, but Botticelli would be spinning in his grave . . .
Again, this fic is rated R for language and sexual situations. Just a reminder!
And now, on with the show:
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Your gentle verses, tender, teasing, bold,
fall fair to heart's awake, evoking bliss
and blush of words. Each moment do I hold
as sweetly stirring as a morning kiss.
But fragile flows the blood through vacant veins
as slow, the journey into warmth begins.
In hollow chambers, only doubt remains
beneath Desire's ever aching skin.
~From the poem "My Waking Heart" by Claire Brown Bower
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Chapter 7: Waking
Pacing his room at 2:00 in the morning, Severus found that waking up in a cold sweat gave him a different perspective regarding the events of the previous day. He'd left the beach, his body all a-tingle with thoughts of Hermione watching him while he sexually fantasized about her. When he came back to the house, he'd checked on her but she was fast asleep in her bed, her back turned away from him. He took the time to have a glass of wine, and mentally replayed everything that had occurred over the course of the last twenty-four hours. He was still processing his thoughts when he retired, asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. He was vaguely aware of swirling dreams with soft sighs and wild, wet kisses and his body relaxed in contentment. Amazing really, as a peaceful sleep was almost unheard of given his recent history.
Three hours later, with the suddeness of an unexpected death, he found himself immediately awake, his mind in a state of chaos. She was his first thought.
It was the rainy season in Belize and while they'd been blessed with glorious weather for two days, the heavens had opened up in the middle of the night and sheets of rain were hitting the hacienda with terrific force. The darkness of his bedroom was punctuated by flashes of lightening, the random pattern reflecting the scattered nature of his thoughts.
He'd been so tangled up in Hermione Granger that he was in danger of completely losing himself at the mere thought of her. The reality of her would be even worse for him, as he didn't even know who he was when he was with her. He couldn't believe that he'd lost control of his life in such a short period of time.
It was time to take back that control.
While there was nothing he could do about his status as "Traitor Extraordinare", he could certainly keep himself from foolishly falling in love . . . or in lust, anyway. He could not allow himself to become distracted by thoughts of either, there was too much at stake.
He let out a quiet groan. Why the fuck was he thinking about love? This thing he was feeling was mere lust and nothing more. He could deal with it. He hadn't been in love since before he joined forces with Voldemort and even then, he couldn't say that it was really love. It was more like the deep longing for something he'd never had before. His parents . . . they'd certainly never loved him, of that he was sure. Instead, they'd looked upon him as an irritation, an intrusion into their private little world. Thankfully, they'd limited their damage to their only child, so at least he was spared from having to share his pain with other siblings. He learned early on to deal with his suffering alone and in silence. Both selfish, his parents had barely tolerated his presence, and it had been with a sense of relief that he'd gone away to school at Hogwarts. In his seventh year, he'd fallen for a girl in Ravenclaw, but her family had deemed him unsuitable and the relationship had been abruptly severed. He still hadn't recovered when he joined the Death Eaters a year later. An emotional cripple, Voldemort had played upon his insecurities, making him an easy mark for manipulation.
After two months in the Dark Lord's service, he'd forgotten all about love. It had drained away from his psyche like blood from a wound.
"This is pointless," he said to himself.
He could never be that young boy again-- trusting, open-- sharing the secrets of his heart with another. Simply put, he could never go back.
Putting a halt to his pacing, he eyed his bed with distrust, as if it was the cause of all his turmoil and all of his sweet dreams. Lying back down, he willed himself to go to sleep --
To go to sleep and dream of nothing.
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Hermione felt infinitely better when she woke up the next morning. Pausing to give a cat-like stretch, she closed her eyes blissfully and smiled a secret smile.
Her thoughts drifted to the previous evening and to the sight of Severus Snape rising from the water, a vision of her deepest fantasies. It was ridiculous, really . . . he'd been her teacher for seven years and nothing in their previous acquaintance had prepared her for what had been revealed to her. How could her view of him have changed so drastically in such a short time? Sitting up in bed, she thoughtfully chewed on her lip, a habit from her days at Hogwarts.
What did this mean? She knew that she wanted him, but for what, she couldn't say. No doubt, she found him beautiful, and perhaps that was enough to tilt her world off its axis. Her mind betrayed another image of him, in the Shrieking Shack ten years earlier . . . his oily hair clinging to his skull, his face contorted in hatred and spittle flying from his mouth as he poured out his rage. So much ugliness wrapped up in a tall, spare frame. She'd hated him then.
Who was he, really? Was he Michaelangelo's David or was he Dante's Lucifer?
Both, probably.
He had been so gentle and kind in the aftermath of her attack from the Haulthici. His eyes had held a tenderness and concern that she knew had been reluctantly wrenched from him in an unguarded moment. Wrapped in his arms, she'd felt safer than she'd ever felt before, cliche as that sounded. No matter what happened between them in the future, she knew that she'd been an unexpected witness to a part of himself that he'd held tightly for most of his life. Perhaps only a select few had ever seen him like that-- Poppy certainly, and probably Albus and Minerva as well.
She unwillingly thought of Viktor Krum. Her experience with the opposite sex had been rare, to say the least. She had always regarded love as something more important to others . . . . Ron for example. While Harry had coveted it as something he felt he could never have, Hermione had always viewed romantic love with a jaundiced eye. It wasn't that she didn't think it desirable, it just wasn't necessary. Love wasn't going to get her where she wanted to go, although she learned that channeling love was important in healing and therefore, as a matter of necessity, she'd willed herself to bring it forth during times of healing. It had taken a lot of soul searching on her part to even attempt to explore those feelings. But loving another to the point of distraction was not something she was willing to do. Viktor had professed his undying love and her reponse to that was to make a hasty retreat, telling him that she wasn't ready for it and she didn't know if she ever would be. They'd parted bitterly and she never saw or spoke to him again.
Why on earth was she thinking about love after twenty-four hours alone in Severus' company?
Shaking her head, she climbed out of bed and padded to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her skin was smooth and unblemished and she looked at her reflection in wonder. Just a few hours ago she had been torn and bleeding and now she had a look about her of a woman reborn and newly awakened.
Deep in her heart, she knew that love could be untamed and wild, and that she feared nothing more than love's disorder. It wasn't something she could study and predict and it wasn't something that she could put in a cauldron to mix with other ingredients until she got it right.
God, she as so confused. Maybe she should just shag Severus and get it over with. Maybe then she could just move on with her life and things could go back to the way they'd always been.
"You're delusional, Hermione," she thought.
Running a restless hand through her tangled hair, she wondered how she was going to face him this morning.
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Harry rolled over in bed and instinctively reached out to the pillow next to his. He was alone.
Slowly unfogging his brain, he opened his eyes to the blurry visions of shapes and colours that always greeted him first thing in the morning. Blindly, he reached for his glasses.
It was as if she'd never been there.
Sighing, he allowed himself a moment of self-pity then the familiar feelings of self-disgust overtook him, tightening his body into a defensive ball on the bed.
Last night with Ginny had been a mistake.
He couldn't really blame it on the vodka . . . instead, he chalked it up to weakness, pure and simple. He knew that Ginny loved him, but the reason had always eluded him. For as long as he'd known her, she'd pursued him with a single-mindedness that wore him down and secretly made him angry. Why couldn't she just leave him be? Why did she cling to him, only to be disappointed again and again? There was nothing in her history to suggest such neediness, she'd always been the much-loved daughter of emotionally indulgent parents. She had been treated like a little princess by her brothers, yet she took his repeated rejection of her as something to be accepted and endured. She was so sure that some day he would come to his senses.
Harry had enough self-insight to realize that his problem with Ginny was that she *wanted* something from him, unlike Ron and Hermione. He suspected that she was looking to fill the void left her from Tom Riddle's manipulation of her during her first year at Hogwarts. Perhaps she thought that if she could make Harry Potter love her, then everything that happened in The Chamber of Secrets could be truly forgotten. He'd told as much to Ron, who had dismissed his thoughts on the subject, saying that Ginny was just fine. The problem was with Harry.
He sighed again. Why was he so fucked up?
Harry had to admit that he knew the answer to that question. For all of his early life he'd seen the interactions that passed for "normal" family life while with the Dursleys. It wasn't until he got older that he realized just how sick they really were. When he came to Hogwarts, he drank in the affection of his friends, his Headmaster and Hagrid with a thirst that was never satisfied, at least at first. Initially, he'd suspected that they loved him because of who his parents were and the fact that he was "famous", but he eventually realized that it didn't work that way, especially with Hermione and Ron. For a while he was even hopeful that someday he would find his "perfect" girl, the one who was meant for him. He'd flirted and lusted and secretly fantasized. Then came his fourth year.
After the death of Cedric Diggory, he'd seen love's gleam slowly leak from the eyes of the girl he secretly loved. Deep in his heart, he'd always figured that Cedric would tire of Cho Chang and that he'd be there to pick up the pieces. "Don't cry, Cho, he's just a stupid git, not worth your time." He'd imagined them getting closer and closer until one day she would look at him and realize that he, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was the love of her life. He'd defeat the Dark Lord, they'd get married and have lots and lots of babies, just like the Weasleys.
Instead, it was as if every happy molecule in her body had fled that day, until her eyes became vacant and she neglected her appearance, rarely speaking aloud. Harry had tried to get close to her, but she'd only looked at him as if she couldn't remember who he was. Finally, in her sixth year, she left for good, transferred to another school.
Which brought him back to Ginny.
In the aftermath of their lovemaking, she'd molded her body to him, whispering in his ear that she loved him. He'd involuntarily stiffened and the silence between them had yawned wide and uncomfortable. She could sense his withdrawal. He'd patted her head like she was a little puppy that needed to be quieted and she'd rolled over on her side, her back facing away from him. He tried softly apologizing to her, but she said it was alright, that she knew things had not really changed between them.
And now she was gone.
Getting up from bed, he pulled on his boxers, shivering in the cold morning air. He'd have to light a fire, it looked to be particularly brisk this morning.
He was just unwrapping his copy of The Daily Prophet when Ron's head appeared in the fireplace. "Harry! Are you up yet?"
"Ron! Where the hell have you been? I'd heard that you were secretly training. Since when is a Top Secret Mission a secret even from me?"
"I'm coming over, I'll explain everything."
In an instant, Ron was standing in Harry's living room, his bright hair all covered in soot, and a crooked smile on his face.
"Bloody hell, Harry! You look like shite, if I may say. What's going on?"
Harry swallowed hard.
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Draco Malfoy roused himself from a heavy sleep, and the noise in his brain made him give an involuntary, loud groan. God, he couldn't even lift his head, it hurt so much! Champagne didn't usually give him a hangover, but in his drunken exuberance, he'd seen fit to mix several kinds of alcohol together, depending upon what caught his fancy in the liquor cabinet.
He was paying for it now.
When he'd finally willed himself to open one eye, he found that he'd fallen asleep with his head at the foot of the bed, tangled up in series of heavy sheets and blankets. He was sweating like a Sumo wrestler. A dainty feminine foot was nudging his cheek and he suddenly remembered that he wasn't alone. Turning his head, he gently bit her on the big toe.
When she suddenly lifted her head to look at him, Draco had to keep himself from screaming and running from the room. "Hermione" lifted an eyebrow and gave him a self-satisfied look.
"Hey, lover boy."
Draco scowled. He hated being called that, it was so cheap and common. "Hermione is a tart, Hermione is a tart," he chanted in his head. That made him snicker.
He opened his mouth to speak. All he could manage was the word, "Gah."
Shaking off the blankets, she got up from the bed, unself-consciously exposing him to all her naked glory. He looked at her in appreciation, although it hurt to move his eyeballs.
He'd personally overseen her transformation to "Hermione", and he had to admit that whatever else he thought about Granger, he was observant enough to realize that she hid a stunning body underneath the layers of robes and heavy sweaters that she frequently wore. He'd caught a glimpse of it the evening that he'd taken her to Guido's and he'd expertly memorized every detail of her curves. It came in handy when it came time to tranform the unknown Auror into Hermione Granger.
As "Hermione" walked over to the closet to fetch her robe, he asked her, "What is your name, really?"
"It's not important, in fact, it's better that you don't know. That way, you won't accidently call me by my name in front of any Watchers Voldemort has posted to spy on us here in Paris."
Draco remembered the previous evening and flushed at the memory. During the height of their passion, he'd moaned Hermione's name until he'd actually shouted it at the time of his release. How bloody embarrassing.
As if sensing his thoughts, the Auror gave him a knowing wink and said, "Dr. Granger should be flattered."
"If you ever breathe a word of this, I'll find out who you are and hunt you down like an animal. Then you'll wish you'd chosen another profession."
"Down boy," she said in amusement. "I have no intention of 'breathing a word.' In this business, the best way to stay alive is to follow orders and keep your mouth shut. It's too bad you're so hung up on Hermione Granger, I'd like to take you on a real spin, myself. No matter though, I think we've met our objectives. Word should be filtering back to Voldemort about our adventures in public nudity last night."
"First of all," he snarled, "I don't have a 'thing' for Hermione Granger. And secondly, it's going to take more than last night's festivities to convince the Dark Lord that Hermione Granger is madly in love with me. Although, it's a good start," he added.
"Yes," she said. "Although I don't understand why it's so important that Voldemort think you're having a love affair with Dr. Granger."
"You don't need to know anything. You're only to do what you're told." Getting up from the bed, he staggered unsteadily to the liquor cabinet.
"Don't tell me you're going to have another round."
He rolled his eyes at her. "Are you daft?" He pulled out a bottle of Madam Malarky's Anti-Hangover Potion and Hair Tonic. "I wonder what this stuff does to your hair?" he thought to himself absently. It certainly tasted like how he thought hair tonic would taste.
Taking a generous swig, Draco thought about his next move. He knew that Snape and Granger were due back to Hogwarts later on this afternoon. It was important that he speak to her right away so that they could get their stories straight. He smirked to himself.
Granger was going to kill him.
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Author's Note: I found the poem "The Waking Heart" on a website dedicated to the poetry of Claire Brown Bowen. You can click here for a wonderful copy of the poem and I was particularly struck by the painting illustrating the poem. I'd like to think of it as Hermione, after feasting her eyes on Severus as he came out of the water. Here's the link:
Also, you'll notice that Draco does a lot of smirking in this story . . . it's the closest thing he has to a smile.
And finally I'd like to thank my wonderful new beta, Elizabeth. Her contribution was invaluable (did I spell that right, girlie?)