I remember back when I originally wrote chapter 11-A, years ago. It was painful to write and I got a lot of backlash for it. Ha. I fully expect that kind of reaction again, just because it was NOT a pretty chapter. Therefore I'm keeping my original A/N's intact for this repost. I feel that they are still relevant.

A/N: For those of you feeling so sorry for Hermione, I would remind you to feel compassion to Snape, as well. For he is just as much a victim of this situation as she is.

A/N2: He didn't take an aphrodisiac in the last chapter. An aphrodisiac would imply that he had taken something to make himself –want- to do the deed, when in reality he only took something that –enabled- himself to do it. Big difference. Ability does not equal desire.

A/N3: Lastly, to the people who thought that Snape would have 'at least tried' to 'make things easier' for Hermione. Please remember that he wants this just as little as she does, and that Snape has never been known to talk simple for the fun of hearing himself talk.

x x x Part Eleven-B x x x

He felt the bed move nearly twenty minutes after he had evened his breathing out, feigning sleep. Her feet hit stones so much colder down in the dungeons than in the padded tower of the Gryffindors, and there was a rustle of cloth as she slid something on over her body, no doubt a robe of sorts, only to open the bathroom door, and then shut it again behind herself. He heard the lock snap into place, and thought nothing of it; knowing she would need her time to come to terms with what had happened just as he did. He didn't move, didn't open his eyes. There was not a single part of him that wanted to see her in whatever little light there may be in the room.

How would he be able to face her again after that?

The bile rose up so quickly in his throat that it was all he could do to swallow it back down, force his stomach to remain at ease, when really it only wanted to spew forth its contents. To empty himself of anything and everything he may have eaten or drank during that mocking excuse of a wedding reception.

She was his student.

And he had slept with her.

It went against everything that he had ever felt to even think of it in those terms. But there they were, laid bare and stark, just as the act itself had been. Wife or not, she was still his student, and he had done the unthinkable with her.

The bile rose again, and this time he found himself scrambling out of bed, for the waste bin next to his writing desk. The contents of his stomach lurched bitingly from his mouth, splattering into the wrought metal can with that sickening wet sloshing that only sickness of this nature tended to make. He gagged again and again, nothing left in his stomach, yet still the need was there. The disgust was so great it was a physical illness, pushing at him from the inside out.

He leaned back against the desk as the tremors of his body subsided, wrinkling his nose at the noxious smell of his sickness, sitting in the waste basket so close by. He'd need to clean that up. A simple spell, of course, had his wand been in his hand and not on his nightstand.

A sigh escaped Severus lips, eyes traveling unbidden to the bathroom door. It was still shut, light creeping out from beneath the crack where it met the floor; and from within came the sound of running water.

And sobs. So soft that anyone else wouldn't have heard, of that much he was sure. Or perhaps he was just looking for misery tonight – hers, his, anyone's – and was therefore so much more in tune with what said misery should sound like.

He should get up and check on her, that much was clear, despite the nausea that still accompanied the thought of what he had done to her only a short time earlier. Dumbledore would have his head on a platter if something happened to one of Hogwart's 'best and brightest' while under his watch, extraneous circumstances or not.

He'd get up, he told himself. Just another moment of peace, however, first.

x x x

Hermione imagined she could feel his eyes on her as she slid out of the bed, pulling her robe tight around her body as quickly as possible, lest he actually be looking her way, in fear that the dying embers of the fireplace would provide enough light for him to actually –see- her. She'd avoided that up to this point, thanks to Merlin for a few well placed sheets and blankets. He'd seen no part of her body that she had not been willing for him to see.

So, not much, in other words.

The bathroom was cold, much cooler than the bedroom, as she shut the door behind herself, swiping her wand over the lock to make sure that she wouldn't be interrupted. She stripped out of her robe, letting the burgundy material fall to the floor at her feet. She shivered, though the coolness of the room didn't quite reach her. The chill she felt was from the inside, and it was slowly seeping through her body, working its insidious icy fingers into her.

She turned on the water, as hot as she could stand, and crawled into the showed, sinking almost immediately to her knees under the hot water. It bit at the skin of her back, a touch too warm, leaving red marks on her skin. But it didn't hurt. Not nearly as much as she knew it should had. A part of her had died that night, gone with one foul stroke –

The brown haired witch gagged, but didn't vomit. They'd done it. Consummated. They'd . . .had sex. Shagged. Made –

No, there had been no love made this night, and she wasn't foolish enough to think that there ever would be love made between them. She was nothing more than a brood mare, after all. Just prized and powerful new blood to breathe life into a dying family name.

But not tonight. She'd protected herself with every contraceptive charm she could get her fingers on, and even a few pilfered from books in the Restricted Section under the guise of doing research for her final term papers. And, of course, there was the potion that she'd learned to make earlier that year. The irony of her Potions Master having taught her the very same potion she used before. . .coupling. . .with him that night was not lost on the witch, and she laughed despite the situation she found herself in.

The laughter faded just as quickly as it had come, however, fleeing her eyes and lips with the instantaneous quickness of a flash of lightning. She reached for the sole washrag in the stall.

She felt so dirty.

The rough cloth scraped against her skin, soft then hard, as she swiped back and forth under the burning water. Pink skin turned an angry red, yet still she kept scrubbing.

So dirty.

She sobbed, washing harder. There had to be a way to feel clean again. If she could just tolerate touching –down there- long enough to wash, perhaps she could feel clean again.

But even as the thought passed through her mind she knew that it would not be the case. That dull ache between her legs would only go away with good old fashioned time. And the pain in her mind and heart would never be truly cleansed.

Yet still she scrubbed.

She hissed in pain as the coarse terrycloth passed between her legs, against lips rubbed raw. It hurt the first time, she knew that. It was in all of the books she'd read – and she'd overheard some of the others girls talking about it.

But did it always hurt this badly? Had it hurt more because she. . .didn't want to do it?

She blushed, ashamed to be even thinking of this; disgusted by herself for doing so with such seeming casualness. As if it were every day when her entire life became torn asunder. Her hand moved absently between her legs, scrubbing at that delicate space until she wondered from the level of pain whether she had done more harm than good. Perhaps she was right, she concluded, leaning against the side of the shower stall.

Perhaps she would never be clean again.

x x x

He knocked once, then again.

With a long-suffering sigh, Severus aimed his wand at the door, muttering the same charm that every teacher at the school knew. The universal charm, good to get into any locked room in the castle.

Handy for circumstances such as these.

He pushed gently on the doorknob, letting it crack open only a centimeter or two, blinking at the sheer amount of steam that bellowed from the room.

"Miss ---" he paused, swallowing back the name that had come unthinkingly to his lips. She had been right to say that she was no longer Miss Granger. He sighed. "Hermione. Are you alright?"

The sound of running water was the only response to his question, and the frown on his lips deepened.

"If you do not respond I will be forced to enter."

The threat hung in the air, and he listened intently for that moment when she would undoubtedly give in. There was no way she was just going to let him push open the door, slowly walk in, pull aside the shower curtain and –

"Merlin," he gasped, dropping to his knees next to the tub. She was sleeping, though how he did not know. Her entire body was pink from the scalding water she had let run over her, and there were darker spots where it looked as if she'd taken the washrag and had scrubbed herself to injury. "You need to wake up now, Hermione."

She moaned in her sleep, a pitiful noise of pain and suffering; and for the first time in years Severus actually thought he could feel. . .something. Not love – never that emotion for her.

Pity, perhaps. Remorse, as well. This night could have gone so much better for both she and he. Was he not the older one in this relationship? Could he honestly not have put his foot down and insisted that they wait on this aspect of their relationship, even if only by a day or three? Just long enough to let the pain of the wedding become not so grievous in her heart? He had intimidated her enough in class throughout the years, why had he balked so easily in these matters?

He pushed aside the thoughts, realizing that there would most likely never be an answer to the questions they raised. Reaching for the knobs, he turned the water off, watching as the last trickle ran down the drain. He pulled her robe from the floor by his feet, wrapping it over her wet body before muttering a simple levitating charm.

It took another fifteen minutes to get her dried and dressed, settled back into the bed, during which time she didn't wake.

A spell, most likely; he knew. Some type of charm to make sure that she got a good night's rest, though why she would have bothered learning something so useless, he couldn't really say. It wasn't as if someone like her wanted to sleep. Sleep was for the non-academics in the world. The ones that didn't want to make something of their lives.

People unlike himself. . .and unlike her.

They were two of a kind, he mused with bitter silence. Two people thrown together, determined to make the best of it, though neither had the slightest clue how to do so. For all that she was friends with Potter and that insufferable Weasley boy and his sister, she was just as deficient in social niceties as he was. Polite when called for, but so often more than not looking as if she'd rather be somewhere where she wasn't called upon to be so bloody formal.

He understood that all too well.

There were other similarities, including an intense drive for knowledge that he knew could be either her blessing or undoing – just which one he wasn't sure yet; but none of those were exceedingly interesting given the excitement of the night, and the sleep his body was demanding of him even at that moment, with a large yawn.

There would be more time to ponder that tomorrow, though, he told himself as he rolled over in the bed, back facing where Hermione still lay, covered in warm blankets lest the morning bring a trip to the infirmary for a cold, or worse.

He hated feeling this way, the urge to take care of someone, anyone, other than himself. Taking care of others only invited yourself to be used and abused, after all. And he would not find himself in either position, Merlin willing.

But she so obviously needed someone to care for her. She certainly wasn't able to do it herself, unless self-mutilation through hot water and over-cleaning was something he wasn't aware of. One of those new trends that would sweep through the school to the point it became obnoxious and even the Headmaster banned it?

Somehow he doubted it. He fought down the urge to look at her arms under a stronger light, to determine then and there if she needed to go to Poppy, but couldn't bring himself to do it. She was sleeping so peacefully for now.

In the morning he'd make sure Poppy came by to 'check in on them'.

For Hermione's sake only, of course, he told himself as his stomach once again churned with disgusted nausea.

Just for Hermione.

END CH11-B