A/N: Another installment... enjoy.
Playlist: Creep – Radiohead(this should be Severus' anthem in like every SSHG), Got to My Head – WATERS, Killing in the Name – Rage Against the Machine, Gun In My Hand – Dorothy, Arsonist's Lullaby – Hozier, Gone Forever – Mick Flannery, Ain't No Angel – Ron Pope, Away From Me – CHINAH, Where I Find You – Dustin Tebbutt
Chapter Four
·
"The soul helps the body, and at certain moments raises it. It is the only bird that sustains its cage."
Victor Hugo
·
"Give it to me!"
Harry's fingers yanked, his nails scratched. When he finally grasped it, the thing which he wanted from her, he pulled as hard as he could—the chain of the time turner strained against the tense tendon of her neck, and Hermione, too stunned to move, could only cry out in despair as it did.
The boy who she once called friend was practically choking her with it, he tugged so hard, "You don't deserve it!"
She whimpered when he pulled harder, like a child who fought for a toy they no longer wished to share. Hermione pleaded over the sputtering gasps of air, "Harry, I'm your friend. Please, you're hurting me."
"How dare you call yourself my friend—you are nothing but a coward. Give. It. To. Me!"
Eyes that were once green flashed red and she was too stunned by the transition from tender boy to furious devil to resist. The slender, delicate gold broke under his strength, and the weight of the time turner, such a constant in her life, was sent careening away from them, leaving her bereft.
Harry watched it with a bored look on his face, lips slightly upturned in a menacing way, red eyes gleaming like rubies and watching the gold dance through the air, catching the light as it spun. He'd wanted it so badly: but not to cherish it like she had. He just wanted to destroy it.
"Harry—Harry, you have to catch it!"
When she stumbled to catch it, arms slithered around her, yanking her backwards. Time seemed to move so slowly: the turner glided in an arc towards the ground away from them, all but suspended. When it collided with the stone either the device would shatter and the sand would spill, creating a disastrous ruin, or it would bounce, likely turn itself, and keep turning for all of time, warping whoever dared get close enough with it.
Best case (and likely the most impossible) scenario, the thing would merely crack, but not shatter, rendering it useless. It was still unfortunate: she would no longer be able to manipulate time to help him or be able to convince him that she was worthy of it. Not that she had been much help so far, but if it could save Harry, she would use it.
But could it save him? Could it save anyone?
Hermione felt tears spill over her cheeks, and she pleaded with the unseen arms that bound her, preventing her from grabbing the falling golden charm. They were too strong for her. The grip was intense: warm, strong, but restricting. She did not have to turn to know it was Snape who held her back.
"Please, Professor!"
"Stupid, insufferable girl—as if I had a choice."
There's always a choice, she wanted to weep. But she knew it would be ignored. She stopped resisting her captor, melting against him in defeat. It was the potions master, and although outwardly he would scorn her, inwardly they were the same. He saw her and briefly—briefly she had seen him.
Strong arms curled around her, pulling her into him, only a breath away from absorbing into him. When she whimpered, his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging curls into his palms and twisting them around his fingers. His scent was musky, sprinkled with sweat and the barest hint of clove, and it enveloped her in a cloud of safety and warmth.
Hermione turned her face upward and back. It was so tempting to turn into his warmth, to let his billowing robes shield her from the world and she wanted very much to disappear into them and hide forever—but when she looked up at the man, it wasn't Snape. It was Sirius.
His smile was mischievously handsome, but seeing it made her insides whither. There was blood caked on his lips and teeth, like when she'd saved his life and his skin had been so dry and cracked, his teeth rotting and black. Madness lingered in his eyes: grief and anger and lust. He was a young man trapped in a decaying, aging body, a prisoner of time whereas she was free to come and go as she pleased.
He spoke to her as if she were a prize, a possession, "You are a sight for sore eyes."
His mouth crushed against hers and he tasted like copper and ash. Hermione thrashed against him, swiping him with nails, teeth, limbs. She broke free of him, barely, falling to her knees as she did, although she continued to kick and thrash.
"Don't touch me," she hissed, when he crouched in front of her, offering her a kind hand.
When his face twisted and he struck her arm, despite her warning, her skin sizzled as his flesh began to melt away, seared by her magic. The animagus was sent spurning away from her, jaws snapping as he turned into a dog that ran to Harry's side to nip at his heels and growl at her.
She did not hesitate to watch them, but immediately stumbled to her feet and headed for the turner. It, however, was so far, and every step she took time seemed to slow around her, until they were both gliding in slow motion towards the center of the Great Hall.
Harry raged with disgust behind her, "How could you do this to me, Hermione? You were supposed to help us!"
Please, she pleaded inwardly, I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to save you!
"You're a hypocrite! A traitor! Fumbling coward! Beseecher of lies!" Harry ignored her, watching the time turner fall—doing nothing to help her as she slid towards the ground to intercept it. She was feet away when it hit the ground, sending the glass shattering and the sand within scattering over her feet.
She covered her eyes, but his words rang against her temples, "I hate you, Hermione Granger."
His voice echoed when time began to merge together, until all the surrounded her was Death, or perhaps nothingness. Hermione, reaching for him, for Harry, for Severus—reaching for anything to save her.
"You failed. You failed. You failed."
The words chanted over her, but the world was all blackness, and she was so alone, so alone: no friends, no turner, no savior. Still, she reached, up and up and up, hoping to find someone to catch her fall—
Hermione woke up, a cry caught in her throat, half-suspended over the ground with her hand stretched as far as it could muster. The witch wavered, nearly toppled over the edge. She managed to anchor herself and, once balanced, collapsed against the bed on her stomach. She stifled her gasp with her forearm and the pillow, shuddering as she bit into her slick skin.
When she had gathered her wits, she reached immediately for the time turner around her neck to make certain it was not, indeed, shattered all around her.
As she cradled the thankfully whole device to her chest, she blinked through the darkness, towards Ginny's prone, softly snoring form. There were enough rooms that she could have had her own, but Molly had insisted that she board with her daughter. Hermione didn't really mind—or wouldn't have, if Mrs. Weasley hadn't been so persistent and if Ginny wasn't so… vibrant. Sometimes, even her hair could be obnoxiously loud. It wasn't her fault, however… she was easier to forgive than Ron, at least. Out of everyone at Grimmauld, she could tolerate Ginny the most.
It was proving to be an less than tolerable summer. Hermione had never been one for cuticle care, but over the last week, she'd begun to grow an abhorrence for dirty fingernails. Each night, she spent an hour cleaning her hands, trying to wash the black gunk out from beneath each and every nail. Mrs. Weasley was determined to make them learn the value "of hard work", but Hermione saw it for what it was: she wanted to keep them occupied, so that they wouldn't get themselves into trouble.
The muggleborn witch also learned within a few days that Ron thought Sirius was the most wicked Order member, considering he would always spell their work done for them, to sneak them away to show them old photographs, and tell them stories of his days at their age—at least when he wasn't in one of his moods. When he was brooding, it was like walking on egg-shells just existing in his vicinity. Luckily, when he was like that, he typically locked himself away in either his room or his dead brother's.
Hermione, on the other hand, avoided being alone with the animagus. She still hadn't forgiven him for what he'd done... and she had read up on the effects of long-term exposure to Dementors. Although turning into a dog had helped him immensely, the wizard would not be immune. He would be prone to depression, fits of anger, restlessness, insomnia… lack of inhibition; not to mention he had been so young and thus was more susceptible to permanent damage. She couldn't imagine being sentenced at twenty-one years old to life among soul-sucking reapers.
Of course, it was no wonder he wanted to be free to roam, and that he sought out the company of Ron and Ginny and Hermione, rather than Molly (who would?) during the day. He was still likely emotionally and mentally the same young man who was dragged to Azkaban after losing his two dearest friends to murder: lacking the rationality of another man of his years, in body, at least.
If she were naïve, or as young as she looked, she would have mistaken his lingering gazes, his charming words, as innocent flirting. Having been subjected to the heated glances of a passionate Bulgarian, she knew better. But remembering that Sirius was confined to Grimmauld Place, she could not fault him for the glances and the weighted words. He was likely just… randy, after having been locked away for twelve years and on the run for two more. That having been granted, she did not think he was the most subtle of wizards and she knew for a fact he'd made up for all those years.
She'd watched a few of the Order witches disappear upstairs with him; perhaps randy wasn't the word she was looking for. In two weeks of her stay, he'd proven himself rather open-minded, if not promiscuous. Not one to pass judgement of such a kind (honestly, she couldn't exactly judge, after her own scandalous affair), she merely looked the other way, tried not to gossip with Ginny about it when the redhead pressed the issue, and did her best to avoid him.
Mrs. Weasley was just as observant of Sirius' behavior, which did not make it easy for any of them. Perhaps he was the reason they were smothered with chores. The matron made certain the women he slept with were cryptically chastised on their way out, as if that would stop them, and guarded Ginny and Hermione like a hawk—not that Ginny was the one he wanted, but Molly was far more protective of her, and yet far less trusting of Hermione.
The Weasley matriarch seemed hyper aware of what Hermione was doing at all times, morning and night. It was almost as if she had been given a mission by Dumbledore himself to make sure the bookish witch was not up to anything nefarious.
This was what Snape had warned about, right? She did not dare ask him… she wasn't even certain he had said the words. A traitorous voice reminded her that she could have made it up—that she could be imagining things. What if she was wrong and she was making too big a deal out of nothing? After all, so far it was just innocent flirting with his godson's best friend on Sirius' part and characteristic overbearingness on Molly's. Could she really use those as reasons not to trust them?
Snape's words echoed in her mind, reminding her that this was a sentence: punishment, perhaps, for her liaison with Viktor, or her near breakdown during the Third Task. She was being kept close, where she could do no harm, where she could not hide from magic or from her duty (just as was the case with Sirius, kept under Molly's thumb just as she was).
With a barely audible sigh, the bushy-haired witch rolled onto her back, letting the device slip back underneath her shirt. Damp skin brushed against dampened sheets, cold against cold. The nightmares often left her in a cold sweat, and considering she didn't have her wand to freshen them, she would have to wash them again or suffer.
Might as well wash them, she knew. It was endless anyway. One more sheet among dozens of old linens was nothing.
She glared towards the clock: it was just after three. Now would be the best time to turn back time, as she had been asleep for roughly five hours and wouldn't necessarily run into herself during the time frame. With the extra turn, she could revise an essay, or research—get a snack from the kitchen or just… anything but sleep. She knew better than to try to return to it once the dreams began to start.
There was a silver lining to being a bit of an insomniac with a time turner: at least she could be productive and still catch up on her sleep. Nighttime was when she did most of her turning, as people were less likely to catch her in two or three places at once. It was the perfect time to get some light reading finished, especially since Molly banged on the door to wake them at the crack of dawn for some task or other to keep their minds off of mischief. Hermione typically was an early riser, but only because she liked to wake herself up reading—that wasn't possible when everyone was being carted out of their rooms for breakfast. Nor was she allowed the past time during the early afternoon, considering they clocked in hour after hour scrubbing mold off of the floor and washing stains by hand from moth-eaten furniture.
She'd slept more than she had in a few weeks, having been sent off to bed early due to the ensuing Order meeting downstairs and thanks to the time turner. And if she was inclined, sometimes she'd nap for an hour while everyone was eating dinner. It was the only time she knew exactly where everyone was, after all.
Tonight, she'd refrained from sneaking off to use it in the evening. Ron and Ginny had huddled with her in the girls' room, playing a card game which Hermione abhorred. After trying vainly to read a book on house elf lineage that she'd found in the Black library, wanting to find some way for Kreacher to warm to her, she'd turned her back to them and feigned sleep. She vaguely remembered Ron trying to wake her when the meeting started and ignoring him.
When he'd left Ginny had thrown a pillow at her, teasing her for putting her brother through the ringer. There was no threat in it—if anyone could understand how irritating Ronald was, it was his baby sister. She knew he was incorrigible.
That was one of the other downfall of her having been forced to stay in the bleary House of Black. Considering the two companions of the Boy-Who-Lived weren't talking to each other quite yet, since their long-lasting arguments of the previous term, being in close quarters was rather uncomfortable. Ronald was holding a rather large grudge, although she believed he was merely him waiting for her to apologize just for the sake of it, or to admit that it had just been a fling. She refused to. While Dumbledore might make her feel foolish for her relationship with Viktor, Ron had absolutely no right to. She wasn't sharing him with anyone she didn't have to.
And if he had wanted to be the one in his place, there had been enough opportunity for him to find her and ask her himself before she was asked by Viktor. But if that wasn't what he was mad about, then she hadn't a clue why he didn't just talk to her about it, rather than beating around the bush.
She was tired of being the only mature one of their lot who communicated how she felt and what she thought. Even Harry was beginning to grow irritated with Ron's antics, at least before the First Task, and she was growing tired of them both being reckless idiots and having to clean up after all their mess. Still, she supposed they both knew just how to infuriate her, which was her own fault. Their entire friendship had blossomed from the very fact that both knew how to annoy and hurt her. But a young Hermione had been so desperate for friends—and while she could say she had settled for whomever came first, she knew it wasn't true. If it was, then she wouldn't feel so bloody hurt whenever he picked at her, or when Harry took his anger out on her. But although she loved her friends and could not think of a worthier pair, how could she ever have liked Ronald, out of the two of them?
Nobody is perfect, least of all me.
And Harry's—well, it'd be like snogging a brother.
It was natural that she'd gravitate towards Ron, having no one else at Hogwarts who even spared her a glance. But as young as they were, she knew that she was capable of such great, awe-inspiring emotions, ones that had obviously blinded her to their incompatibilities, ones that had made her body ignite and her heart shatter. Ronald, however… Ronald had the emotional capability of a toadstool. Anything beyond friendship with him would now prove sickeningly boring for her, having been spoiled by Viktor. It would be blissfully domestic, but boring.
And if Ron couldn't handle even the basest of feelings now, how could he ever deal with loss, with romantic love, with passion? He was too blinded by his own jealousies and inadequacies to ever compare to Viktor in that aspect… not that she compared them at all.
Perhaps a little.
"Enough," she told herself harshly, sparing Ginny a wary glance. She was wasting precious time. Even with the turner, every second was valuable.
Luckily for her, time was still on her side.
Having used the device for a while, she was always careful to frequently check her elegant classic wristwatch, bought by her father in her second year when she'd complained of her electric one having failed while at Hogwarts. And in her pocket was the charmed compact that had been McGonagall's present to her, gifted after the time turner had been approved. It kept track of the hours—the real hours—which Hermione had lived, and also marked the last time she had turned, how far she had gone back, and how many copies there would be of her if she had done so multiple times.
Sixteen years, eight months, twenty days, fourteen hours, and twenty-nine and a half-seconds old.
Time flew when you abused it. In less than four months she would be seventeen (if she never turned again)! Seventeen years old—of age in the wizarding world. Funny, wasn't it? She'd almost gained an entire year with the time turner and would be of age a year sooner. If she scheduled her turns correctly, she could align her birthday again. Wouldn't that be a fun puzzle to solve?
If she turned back three hours and a breadth, now, she'd have just long enough to allow her to slip out just before her past-self slipped back in and before Mrs. Weasley set the ward. Being careful not to step on the creaks before the threshold of their room, she turned the necessary amount. Almost immediately, she dashed for the library (down the hall and to the right), knowing that Molly would arrive soon enough. It was just in time—footsteps carried softly behind her on the stairs, preventing her from closing the library door fully without alerting whoever it was to her presence.
"Has Albus lost his mind? It's already enough that our children are in this—this—"
"Molly, it may not be pretty, but it is safe."
"Relatively! I mean, honestly, it's a wonder this place hasn't collapsed."
"Of course, dear. Sirius was wrongfully imprisoned for twelve years—he was hardly capable of keeping up with it while in Azkaban."
"Oh, you know what I mean, Arthur!"
"I know, dear... it's not a 'healthy environment for the children'."
"At all. Even the spoons were cursed, for Merlin's sake!"
Hermione rolled her eyes—and yet we're the ones inhaling the dust as we clean. Honestly, it was almost as if she spelled it back on the next day just to keep them busy.
But she'd rather it was her than that poor, wretched house elf who was slaving away.
"The situation could be far worse, Molly."
"WORSE?" She hissed, "What could possibly be worse?"
"Dumbledore also promised protection from Him here. That's why we left the Burrow."
"And yet, I feel as unsafe as ever."
"That's normal, Molly. This is the beginning of a war."
She leaned forward against the frame of the door, hardly registering that her dressing gown was falling off her shoulders, her hair was a right mess, and her skin was slightly sticky from her night-sweats.
"I cannot lose anyone again, Arthur."
For once, she agreed with Molly.
"Shh, my love. You worry too much," Arthur urged, insistently.
Hermione stood still in the shadows of the library, the door only slightly cracked so she could hear. She thought maybe Arthur had heard her, but instead, she heard Molly say hurriedly, "Oh!"
Slightly disturbed at how breathily Mrs. Weasley could moan, Hermione stepped backward into the library, knowing they would be distracted with each other. With slight trepidation, she sidled inward. When she was certain they were gone, she closed the door completely.
"Taking advantage of your little toy, Miss Granger?"
She didn't even reach for her wand. But her heart did fly into her chest and she turned around, socks slipping over the slick wood. Instead, she was given the man in question, wandless and lurking near the bookcases, trailing a finger along their edges with a bored expression on his face. Dark eyes bore into her wide, shocked ones, plucking at her thoughts.
She only barely managed to catch her breath before she dropped her gaze, clutching to her chest in shock, "Fuck. Do you just naturally lurk wherever you go?"
His face twisted into a disapproving expression when he surveyed her form. She instantly reached for the edges of her dressing gown over her shirt, which to her dismay was worn without a bra. As she crossed her arms defensively over her chest, his expression darkened and he turned to face the books.
"Do you just naturally shove your nose where it doesn't belong?" He drawled.
"How—" It was her turn to scowl, as she felt a presence in her mind that wasn't meant to be there, "Stay out of my head."
"My, my," he said tautly, "Such high demands from someone so… slight."
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"Stay out of my head," she repeated, "Or I'll—"
Er, what would she do, exactly?
"You'll… what?" The potions master taunted, turning only his head, ever so slightly, "You'll hex me? You'll tell Molly? The headmaster?"
She fell silent. It wasn't exactly the excuse she was looking for, but would have been aligned, she supposed.
"Insufferable girl. Your naiveté is showing in more ways than one, Granger."
His dark eyes flicking from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, lingering in places where they shouldn't have. Hers narrowed over his long form in a similar fashion—he wore robes, black, floor-length, buttoned to his chin. His eyes seemed heavy, dark, and his face was worn.
Wearing these clothes, he looked much older than he had in the Muggle ones… or perhaps he was just tired, given the dark circles beneath his eyes and the luminescent sheen to his skin.
She dared challenge him with her own jibe, "The same could be said of your senility, Snape."
If he was angered by her forgetting, once again, to address him as sir or Professor, he gave no indication of it. He merely turned to face the books once more.
"Go back to bed, little witch," he instructed towards her when she remained after a time, "Before something dangerous comes and eats you up."
Hermione shivered when he turned his face ever so slightly, so that she could see the quirking of his lips. She ignored his taunts and swept over towards the bookcase that was opposite of him, drawing her dressing gown around her. Grimmauld Place wasn't exactly chilly, but she found she was feeling rather naked.
Never one to back down from making a point, however, she said, "I'm perfectly safe here."
"Are you now?"
"Yes," she insisted, back to him, "I'm with you, aren't I?"
"Imprudence is unflattering."
"It's not imprudent, it's a fact, and I don't care about flattery," she answered hotly back, turning to glare at him over her shoulder, "You've saved me more times than I can—"
He spun on her then, his features turning dark and twisty, "On Dumbledore's orders, yes, I have saved you from your own stupidity and Potter's. But if it were his order to let you die… well, you know all about necessary sacrifices, don't you, little witch?"
She opened her mouth, stunned, and felt the hurt and betrayal grow in her belly. Still, she clung to that brief moment of understanding between them—if she were going to trust him, that apology would have to be long-lasting in her memories.
His words would make it easy to forget, but she had a good enough memory that she could at least try.
"I do," she said, lifting her chin, "I imagine you do, too."
"You wouldn't want to imagine what I know all about."
"Wouldn't anyone?"
He scowled, lifted a hand, "Do you see anyone else daring to pester me at such a delicate hour?"
She took a deep, calming breath through her nose, then expelled it.
"If you are feeling pestered, then I must remind you that this isn't your library or Hogwarts', Professor. If you hadn't already noticed, we are both guests here," Hermione pondered aloud, shooting him a look of incredulity as she plucked a books from the shelf at random.
"Some more welcome than others," he hissed, mostly to himself.
"But guests nonetheless," She muttered, turning to fully face him now, sizing him up with her shoulders thrown back. It was perhaps lost on him, her determined stance, considering her sleeve slipped again, revealing a bare shoulder once more, "You lack jurisdiction to bar me from it."
"Do I now?"
"Yes."
His eyes glinted in a way that made her heart race a little bit faster, "And what if I decided to test the boundaries of my… jurisdictions?"
His figure was so imposing, and although his voice was velvety, she could detect a darkness in it: there were many obvious reasons why she could believe he was telling the truth. He could threaten her and he likely would, to get his way, knowing him.
But whatever he expected her to do with that threat, she couldn't help but want to do some testing of boundaries of her own.
She shrugged, "You can choose to fight me, or help me; it's up to you what you want to waste your energy on."
There was no change in expression, no movement. He just stared at her, wearing the same glinting, dark eyes and frown he always wore. Behind them, however, she could see a flicker of amusement and perhaps… perhaps surprise.
Oh, how could she ever have hoped to surprise him, of all people—but it made something in her swell with pride. It was not a feeling she'd been blessed with lately.
Eagerly, she pounced on her opportunity, "In a show of good faith, I propose a truce."
"And why would I subject myself to a compromise with you, of all people, Miss Granger?"
"Because," she began to say, despite the soft roll of his eyes at her precise punctuation, "we both have to either live in or frequent this rotting place against our will, and this library, at this time of night, is the only place and time where I am not surrounded in seas of Weasleys, not to mention the only time and place where I am not up to my elbows in fucking doxy shit or dead puffskeins. It's the only place I feel normal."
"You are incapable of normalcy," the potions master reminded her.
"Well, I like to kid myself, on occasion."
"Gross delusions are a sign of mental illness, Granger."
"Ha," she huffed, growing irritated with him—he was wasting precious minutes deliberating with her. If he didn't want the library, he could let her have it and if he did, he could let her know so she could pilfer what she needed and leave him be, "All that besides… considering you're going to be here quite often, and you're likely going to seek the same reprieve, can we just agree that this in this room of all rooms, is a sacred space?"
His brow quirked towards her as he lazily turned the page of the book which he'd plucked while she blurted out her speech. She matched the expression as best as she could, crossing his arms at his lack of seriousness. Having known him for four to five years, she could tell he was actually thinking about it. Otherwise, he would have already shot her down.
After a time of staring at him, he lifted a hand, waving her towards one half of the library—silently agreeing to her terms, or so she hoped, and committing her to her fair share. She knew better than to expect him to spend time teaching her, tutoring her, or babying her and dutifully headed towards the opposite end.
When he sent a disapproving look towards her, she smiled brightly, "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Don't tempt me, Granger," the man practically growled when he selected his book and gracefully sat upon the sofa nearest the lamp.
"I wouldn't dream of it," She snapped, before she made great efforts to try to forget that he even existed.
Being the bookworm she was, he was forgotten in less than a minute.
·
Severus glanced up from his perch on a sofa in the corner at the girl. For gods' sake, she wasn't making it easy on herself, was she? Miss Granger was proving to be unaware of the womanly changes of her body, or perhaps she just wasn't the modest girl she claimed to be whilst donning her ever-perfect Hogwarts uniform.
In place of the humble skirt, vest, and blouse, she wore a flimsy dressing gown which clearly wanted nothing to do with her slight little body. Not moments after sliding into the library, the sleeves had slipped sensually down her shoulder. She'd corrected it, absently, when he'd evaluated her, but it fell soon after she plopped down on the sofa farthest from him as was physically possible. Beneath the delicate, clingy fabric she wore comfortable Muggle clothes: cotton shorts and a slip of a shirt, and a pair of socks that teased the bottom of her knees, but left her thighs visible for him to ogle. The attire, although far from scandalous, left little to the imagination. The porcelain flesh he'd never cared to look for was revealed in bountiful amounts. The witch had nice skin, if a little sweaty; the majority of it appeared soft and pale and supple.
Severus frowned at her when she shifted, stretching out over the sofa while curling to face away from him, revealing a curvy thigh and tiny feet which she habitually tucked into the folds of the couch and now freed to wiggle her toes as if they had fallen asleep. Watching her rustle so domestically was a crime, in his opinion, but he could not look away.
It was foolish. Severus was not a lecher, but when his eyes slid over her body, however, a part of him acknowledged that she was no longer a child, but a woman. Black's obvious interest in her was not unfounded, despite how disgusting it was to him to think they shared the same taste in women. But of course, while Severus refrained from tasting the forbidden fruit, as always, Black would sacrifice his freedom for some poor girl's cunt. The potions master wasn't completely convinced, however, that Dumbledore hadn't planted the suggestion in his mind.
After twelve years in Azkaban, it would be easy to shape the mutt's desires. If Severus could trust himself to do so without ripping his mind apart, he would have done so already—instructing the twit to leave him be, or perhaps making him give into a certain underlying desire to go after Lupin while in mutt form and hump him incessantly. That would be a sight he would give a limb to see.
But he would be the first one they'd accuse of sabotage, so he refrained, even for the sake of Miss Granger's "innocence". That was a matter to be dealt with subtly, if with as much immediacy that subterfuge could provide.
The girl shifted again, lifting an arm over her head and squirming uncomfortably. The wizard dropped his gaze when she glanced towards him, perhaps checking to make sure he was not watching her. Convinced he was absorbed in his book, she returned to her own, but drew the night gown around her like a shawl, wrapping all that tender flesh away and draping her arm over her torso to keep it in place.
He still felt the loss of it, despite trying to convince himself otherwise. Although he had committed heinous acts in his youth, he had never had such pervasive thoughts about a student before, even when he was a new teacher and the students had once been his classmates. Then again, he'd been too blinded by grief to care then about anything romantic, and his sexual desire was damaged after being so desensitized to it under the dark lord's regime. Not to mention, she'd fed into his unintentional flirtation with all the charm he would expect of someone like her…
She was far from innocent, that was certain. He had evidence of it, floating somewhere in his brain. Although the visuals were lost, he had the memory of the memory to remind him.
Hell, while he held more honor than most Death Eaters, he was not a saint—he could admit her beauty and his desire to touch her, to consume her, if only in the depths of his own mind, because he could only ever admit to being a flawed, mortal man, who appreciated feminine beauty and was rather starved of their affections as of late. Considering attachments were so dangerous, he'd been forced to turn away the few women he'd had in Hogsmeade. They had been abandoned the summer before. Since then, he was left to find company from Muggles when he found a pervasive urge. It was far from the regular occurrence. Now that he was staying in London more often,to appease Dumbledore, and being pestered by the girl's silly, slightly provincial charms, he would have to make more of an effort to indulge.
Resisting her would not have been a problem in his youth. He would have taken what he wanted, simply for the fact that he was used to getting what he wanted under Voldemort. Perhaps he might have taken advantage of his situation, even a few years ago. But he was not the same man he had been at twenty-one, nor the same one at thirty, that he was at thirty-five.
Because the fact was that he'd been a man since before she was born and, at thirty-five, that drew a very large line between them for the wizard, at least. Furthermore, the knowledge that he was but ten years younger than her father stifled any urges he might not have been able to swallow at the sight of her ripe, slender body, despite the fact that it was vulnerably, unassumingly beautiful.
His one saving grace was perhaps that her figure was far from voluptuous, which he admitted was how he preferred his women. But, alas, what she lacked in curves, she made up for in all of that supple, soft, brilliant skin casting strikingly beautiful softness to the angular lines of her frame.
What will it be, Severus? Will you break her, or mold her? Take her, or free her?
Was there really any difference?
What the hell was he doing here, anyway? Was he really ready to risk everything, bloody everything, for this little witch, who could offer him literally nothing in return, who would tempt him from the path he knew he should be taking? Helping her wouldn't change the fact that his death was already written in Albus' mind.
So why not reap the benefits, while he could?
It would be easy to seduce her, but he remained stoic, moving nary a muscle. From a great distance, she twisted again, mesmerizing him with her innocent, unassuming fidgeting and sighing. The wizard merely watched her, contemplating the consequences helping her would have on his livelihood and Potter's. She wanted to help him and she could help him, even without Dumbledore's demands, so why force her? Why go through all this trouble to shackle her, as he had Severus? What did the headmaster know that he didn't?
Something flickered in the back of his mind, a memory that he couldn't name, or put an image to. He shoved it away; it was likely one of hers and Krum's, coming to surface, incensed by her overabundance of sighing. Still, he frowned as the itch continued, pestering him to go after it...
When she glanced up at him a few hours later, her eyes were hooded, sleepy in that way when someone fell into a good book. For him, and no doubt for her, getting lost in a book was sometimes better than sleep, better than sex... it transported you to another world, another mind. Such a contentment on her face was not disrupted when she found him, still perched on his own sofa, pretending not to meet her eyes rather than allowing her to know that he had been watching her resolutely since she sat down. The little witch wasn't foolish enough to smile at him when she stood, the light catching the golden strands in her honeyed brown hair, but she nodded to him before padding quietly towards the exit and slipping into the hall.
The last thing he saw was the shoulder of her dressing gown falling, her lovely skin brightened by the peeking of sunlight through the drawn curtains, before the door shut and hid her away from him.
Relieved of her distracting presence, he made his decision. Albus wanted him to convince her to blind devotion of him and that typically meant lies, mind tricks, and false promises, as well as persuasions of the body. While the headmaster might fear what was to come of the war so much that he would sacrifice her childhood, her humanity, Severus had been on the other side far too long to do the same. Mortal, flawed man that he was, Severus would be damned before he let her be tainted by Black or Dumbledore… or himself, for that matter.
She would be his death, that he was sure of, whether or not he succumbed to the call of all that glorious, porcelain skin or not. But Gods help him, she'd ensnared him, and something in the back of his mind itched for him to keep her whole and safe and healthy. He'd never forgive her for it, either... nor would he ever tell her.