A/N: Someone asked if there was a way I could differentiate between spoken conversation and mental conversation with Severus and Hermione. When their minds are linked, the communication is shown in italics and is non-verbal. Otherwise, their conversation is shown between quotation marks.
For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 63: Erosion
The connection between their minds continued as they finished washing and dried off. They moved into the bedroom, where he reclined on the clean sheets of the bed, and she felt his pleasure at the comfort, after hiding in the cold, dirty, rocky cave. She exulted to have the link between them; she was never happier than when the bulwark of his consciousness was palpable in her mind.
She went straight to the stash of potions in the wardrobe and sat on the edge of the bed beside him, tilting the Blood Replenishing Potion to his lips.
I had it before I went to Potter, he objected.
You need more, she coaxed. Your colour is still very bad.
He drank, and she took up a different phial, pouring a small amount of dittany on her fingertips. This won't hurt, she promised, bringing her fingertips to the place on his jaw where the cut began.
It won't help much either, he responded, turning his face from her, his eyes already falling closed in exhaustion. It's been too long.
We'll see, she temporised, leaning over him to smooth the tacky liquid up his cheek. As she applied the dittany, she began to sing softly, a chanting Healing Spell she had seen Madam Pomfrey use in the Hogwarts Infirmary, after which she had campaigned to have the matron teach her the incantation. It seemed to her that the angry red of the wound lessened as she applied the potion and chanted with her wand almost touching the torn skin, and so she allowed herself to become lost in the repetition of dabbing the potion on and singing the wound closed, all her considerable power directed to this task.
Time passed; the sun rose higher in the sky outside of Roissy House, and still Hermione worked, pushing her own exhaustion away as if it were of no matter at all. She was conscious of the mind link dissolving when the professor fell into a deep, restful sleep, and she felt the sadness which always visited her when he had been in her mind and then was gone. There was something so strong about his presence—so supportive, like a fortification against which she could rest, or a surrounding stone wall, within whose confines she was safe to do as she would without fear of harm coming to her—that when he withdrew, she felt the loss as a piercing, physical thing.
When she had done all she could for his skin, from his jaw up into his soft, clean hair, she took a deep breath and raised the eye patch. It was evident that the eyelid had been bisected at an angle, but here, there was evidence that someone—Rafe, surely—had made an attempt at healing. The skin was knit back together evenly, though the stark red of the scar stood out on the bluish white skin around his eye. What distressed her was what damage there might be beneath the closed eyelid.
'I think the cornea is abraded,' he said quietly, and Hermione realised her professor was awake again. 'I cannot bear light, and Rafe says the eye is blood red, but I do not believe the sclera was breached.' He sighed, and one of his long hands stroked down her bare back. His good eye was open, gazing at her, but the injured eye he kept closed. 'With any luck—and historically, I have not had much—my eyesight will not be impaired, once the healing is complete.'
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and pressed a kiss to the newly healed skin below his eye, still slick with dittany. 'I'm so glad,' she said. 'I don't know any healing spells for the eye—I would have been afraid to try to repair damage there.'
He turned his face and chastely kissed her lips, then sighed again with exhaustion. 'Did you sleep with Potter and Weasley?'
'I certainly did not!' Hermione replied, shifting away from him. 'I can't believe you asked me that!'
A sneer touched his thin lips. 'You misunderstand me,' he informed her. 'I merely meant to ask if you slept at all last night, or if you were up teaching Potter how to cast the spell until dawn.'
Hermione relaxed again. 'I didn't sleep in the tent,' she said. 'I spent all the time working with Harry on wand movements.'
He drew her down until her head rested upon his pillow, and he threw the bed covers over her, reaching out with one long, warm leg to trap her legs. 'Then you will not object to sleeping with me,' he said, and before she could answer him, he was sleeping again.
Hermione dozed in his embrace, spending long stretches of time looking at his face in the dimly lit room, thankful that he had not been more seriously injured, and determined to keep him with her until he was well enough to go.
She came awake slowly, first smelling delicious food and hearing voices, then opening her eyes, seeing that there was no light edging the heavy draperies—nightfall had come again, then—and finally, looking down the length of the bed into the sitting area, where her professor sat, conversing with Pitty, the house-elf.
'… questions about your instructions?' he was saying.
'No, Master Severus,' Pitty said, curtseying.
Hermione sat up, clutching the bed clothes to her chest, and though he did not glance at her, she knew he was aware of her wakeful state.
'You may go,' he said to the elf, and Pitty popped out of the room.
'Hello, pet,' Professor Snape said, turning his face to her.
Hermione took up her wand and lit the room more brightly. He looked better, his colour much improved by the rest, and already, the red of the facial slash was fading. She felt a flush of accomplishment.
'Hello, Master,' she said, and throwing off the covers, she padded across to him, bending to kiss his temple. 'May I go to the bathroom first?'
In the general way of things, she would not have asked for permission to empty her bladder, but she was still a bit on tenterhooks regarding the punishment, which was yet to be discussed. She meant to walk very carefully around him for the duration of the time she had to spend with him before he left again for his work with—and against—Voldemort.
He reached out a long-fingered hand and cupped her pudendum, insinuating his thumb between her labia, applying very slight pressure to the top of her clitoris. Hermione felt the flush of desire low in her tummy but was also aware of the increased need to pee. Would he make her try to hold it while he teased her? What if she couldn't do it?
He rested his head against the back of the armchair, his long, raven's wing black hair blending into the fabric of his tight, high-necked jumper, the black silk eye patch giving him a rakish air. 'Shall I come along to tidy you up?' he inquired meditatively. 'We could apply your nipple clamps while you sit on the toilet, and I could massage your clit with oil while you start and stop urinating on command.'
Hermione swallowed, simultaneously repulsed and aroused. How did he do that? It would be humiliating, somehow, to have him crouched at her side while she sat on the toilet, trying to stop her urine flow upon his command, all the while having him rub clever, slick fingers against her aching clitoris … Why would the contemplation of such humiliation make her quim ache with arousal?
His gaze never left her face as she mulled over his offer, but after only a few seconds of her hesitation, he lightly slapped her labia and chuckled. 'Never mind,' he said, amusement in his tone. 'We have other matters to discuss. Off with you.'
When she returned, she knelt at his feet, but he reached at once to her chin and lifted her face.
'Put something on,' he said. 'We've got roast beef for dinner, and I'm starving.'
They sat together on the love seat, and both of them made an excellent meal of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and roasted sprouts. He drank dark red burgundy with his food, and Hermione was glad to see the added colour in his cheeks and the relaxed line of his shoulders. For pudding, he allowed her to spoon-feed him trifle, which he ate while petting her, stroking her shoulder, smoothing her hair, until she had put the dish aside. Then he spanned her bare throat with his hand and sipped wine.
'Remove the dressing gown and fetch your collar,' he told her.
Hermione shed the garment and went to the wardrobe to retrieve her collar from his pocket. She stood for a moment gazing at it, her thumb passing lovingly over the engraved silver disc.
'Don't dally,' he said sharply, and she hurried to him, sinking to her knees before him and placing the collar into his hands before allowing her own to come to rest, palms up, on her thighs.
'Look at me, Hermione,' he said, and she did so, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. He held her gaze for a moment before beginning. 'You disobeyed a direct, clear order,' he said.
'Yes, Master,' she agreed, hearing her voice as calm and matter-of-fact, at severe odds with her clamouring emotions.
'I bade you to remain here, and when Rafe wrote to you, he conveyed the same message to you, did he not?' He watched her with the one good eye, his expression grave but not cold.
'Yes, he did,' she admitted.
'Yet you saw fit to disregard this request,' he stated.
'Do you want me to tell you why, Master?' she asked, hoping she wouldn't make him angry by varying her answer from simple agreement.
'No,' he answered. 'I feel quite sure I know why you did it.' He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. 'You had struggled with the translation, and time had been weighing on you, for you felt the urgency of Potter's need of the spell.'
Hermione nodded minutely. He was looking directly into her eyes, speaking reasonably, almost kindly.
'You had a breakthrough and finished the translation all in a rush; you knew I had been injured, that I was not in possession of our journal, and you felt the onus was on you to make sure Potter received the spell with no further delay.'
'Yes!' she exclaimed, pleased that he understood her thought progression without having it explained to him. How tired she grew of explaining herself to other people all the time! But her Master was quick—as quick as she, if not more so—and he never needed to have things explained to him.
'You feel that all of these things justify your choice to disobey the direct order you had promised to honour.'
As quickly as it had come, the approbation Hermione had felt melted away, to be replaced by prickling unease. When phrased like that, her decision to go to Harry didn't sound very honourable. Hadn't she promised her Master that she would be good, stay safe, relieve his mind of worrying about her? And had she not strayed almost immediately into a Death Eater ambush? Her face fell, and she stared down at the floor.
'Do not look away!' the professor hissed, and she raised miserable eyes to his face. 'You have seen the lengths to which I am prepared to go to keep you out of harm's way!' he exclaimed, his calm falling away as he indicated his scarred face and damaged eye.
His voice continued to rise, and Hermione felt the encounter slipping away into dire, treacherous territory.
'Why,' he demanded, spittle flying from his lips, ' is it so difficult for you to reciprocate my sacrifice by giving up your everlasting impulse to careen after Potter from one disaster to the next? You've been doing it since you first walked through the doors of Hogwarts!'
Hermione's eyes filled with tears of remorse. Why did he twist it all to be about questioning her loyalty? How could he make it about her caring more for Harry than for him?
His lips twisted into an ugly, bitter snarl. 'Wearing my collar means that you belong to me, Hermione! To me, not to Harry fucking Potter!' He held the collar before her face, giving it a shake. 'He has only to call for you and you're off, every promise you've made to me like so much dust in the wind!'
She cried now, abandoning the pose, raising her hands to her wet face, dashing the tears away. 'It's not like that!' she cried. 'I love you! You know I do!'
His face hardened, and he stood, moving away from her. He paced to the door, then turned. It was evident to her that he was struggling to contain his anger, to control his emotions. When he spoke again, it was in a flat, emotionless voice.
'I never asked for your love,' he said. 'I have no use for love' the word spoken like an epithet, contemptuously, 'where neither loyalty nor honour exist.'
The door was opened, and he swept out, slamming it behind him. Hermione slowly slid to the floor, stretching out between the love seat and the roaring fire, sobbing as if her heart would break.
