Sorry to keep you all waiting so long! School has been hectic and we just put on a production of Tartuffe, which has dominated all of my time for the past three weeks or so. But after this week, it will be over, and I will try not to keep you waiting as long this time. Also, for those of you who are also following my other fic, Clash of the Conjurers, I promise to update that one soon as well :P Thank you so much for all of the wonderful reviews and for your continued support! I hope you like Chapter 4!

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Absorbed in the fresh, enlightening text of an unfamiliar book, Hermione could almost forget her current situation. Nothing existed but the arm of the Professor's couch pressing into her back, the scent of an old book wafting through the air with every turn of the page, and a bounty of new information on the creation and destruction of Protection spells at her fingertips. Hermione drank the words like a camel parched with thirst and was so fascinated that she didn't even think about the real reason she was reading such a text. Originally, the intent had been to teach herself to break the Professor's wards and hopefully escape.

She now had free reign of the Professor's living room, and he had not set down any ground rules about such things as… reading his books. But she had come to notice that several of the darker, more dangerous-looking tomes were warded against her touch—another reason to read up on breaking wards. It seemed strange that such a fastidious man would simply forget to ward the entire bookshelf against her, yet even less likely that he would deliberately allow her access to them. But as she had gotten more and more comfortable in this new extension of her prison, she had gotten a little careless about hiding her use of his books from him. A couple of times now, he had walked in to find her on his couch with an old tome open on her lap. He hadn't said a word about the books, but had scolded her the one time he found her sitting in his reading chair.

As she read, the entire world faded away and all that existed was the information stimulating her intellectual mind. But eventually a tickling thought seemed to prod her conscious mind like a gentle tap on the shoulder as a reminder of something she had forgotten. When she finally broke away from the source of knowledge in her lap, she realized that it was rather late for the Professor to still be away. For the moment, she merely brushed it off. After all, it was difficult to discern time when one was reading. For all she knew, it could be hours earlier than she thought it was.

But as the chapters flew by and her back grew sore against the arm of the couch, Hermione decided that something must be wrong. There had only been a few nights that he had stayed out so long and she was fairly certain those were the times he was Summoned to the dark lord. Once, toward the beginning of her stay, he had been preparing for bed when a sudden hiss of pain brought a cringe to his normally austere visage. Hermione had noticed the way he held his left arm a moment before he grabbed a cloak and hurried out the door. She remembered being confused at first. But over time, it began to make sense to her. She had read about the Dark Mark before, though precious little information had ever been recorded in the literature available to her.

Knowing that he was probably with the dark lord and waiting for his return gave Hermione a strange sense of anxiety and she wasn't sure what that could mean. As the hours dragged by, it became more and more difficult to concentrate on the book in her lap. Finally, she gave it up as a lost cause and took to pacing, realizing more and more the peril she herself could be in if anything were to happen to him. And there was something more. He was the only person in her life now, and she supposed it was not extraordinary that she should be concerned about him.

Whatever the cause of her anxiety, her heart leapt with fear and relief when the floo suddenly burst into green flame. And she spun around in time to see her Professor stumble to the wall, clinging to it for support. At first she thought he was drunk and was afraid that he would either be angry that she had been witness to his weakness, or emboldened to seek her out for pleasure once again. But then she saw the way his body trembled and the sweat blossoming across his forehead. His eyes were unfocused and red and his complexion was a sickly pale green. For a moment, he merely stood there, leaning against the wall as he seemed to catch his breath. But when he attempted a step farther into the room, his legs gave out beneath him and he half-tripped over the short coffee table before collapsing in a heap a foot from the nearest armchair.

It was then Hermione realized that he hadn't so much as noticed her presence in the room. In his weakened state, the possibilities were limitless. She could cut the old bastard down and make her escape when his wards fell with his death. Only… she couldn't do that. And, what was more, she didn't want to do that. But if she did not assist him, whatever was afflicting him could very well be his demise. Should I help him? Hermione was not sure. But before her rational mind could puzzle it out, her feet began to take her toward the Professor's crumpled form.

"Professor?" she whispered as she approached.

"Go to bed, Granger," he told her in a shaky voice.

"You are not well," she persisted, reaching for him as he used the chair to pull himself to his feet.

"Most astute," he replied in a weary far-off voice, pushing her away as fresh beads of sweat sprouted across his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

"What happened?" she asked him, grabbing his elbow as his legs threatened to give again. He threw her off with an angry swipe that knocked himself off balance and he stumbled to his bedroom door, leaning heavily against it as he panted heavily and began to sag. "Please, Professor," she insisted, "let me help you." She slipped past him into the bedroom and was startled to see his dilated, unfocused stare and the green hue tingeing his sunken cheeks. "You are unwell, sir." Even as Hermione said it, fear pulsed through her at the realization that she didn't know what to do.

He managed a soft snort of derision at that. But something of her fear must have leaked into her words or onto her face, for he suddenly looked at her. And beneath the turmoil of his physical illness, there was some sort of consideration in those dark eyes. "Poison." He told her.

"Oh gods…" Hermione tried to calm the rising panic within her as the Professor studied her reaction.

"Help me to my bed," he commanded in a tone that struggled to sound strong. Hermione's relief was tangible as she wrapped an arm around his waist and led him to the gigantic four-poster. "Beneath the sink, there are some potions," he told her, clutching his head as if trying to concentrate. "Bring me a glass of water, two vials of Strengthening Solution, two of the lavender vials for pain, a yellow one for nausea, and a Calming Draught."

Hermione nodded and hurried to the bathroom to collect the potions he required and search desperately for a glass to fill with water. There was an old one sitting on the counter with something chalky caked in the bottom and dust all along the rim, but she washed it with the hand soap as quickly as her shaky hands would allow and brought his supplies immediately to the bed.

The Professor was attempting to remove his cloak, but his weak, shaking fingers were having a bit of difficulty. "Here you are, Professor," she said as she handed him the glass, but it nearly slipped from his hands before she'd had a chance to withdraw her own, so she helped him tilt it to his mouth and he swallowed eagerly. That done, he collapsed against the mattress and Hermione sat beside him in order to help him take the potions. She lifted his head with a hand underneath it and was shocked to feel the cold sweat drenching his inky hair. His skin was clammy to the touch, she noted, and as she poured the vials down his throat, his eyes began to roll back.

"Please, Professor!" she cried, desperate to bring his focus back to her. His eyes pried open, but he couldn't quite focus on her face and his eyelids quickly shuttered closed again. "You have to help me, Professor. I can't move you by myself." Somehow, she pulled him the rest of the way onto the bed, though he was scarcely able to help at all.

He began pulling at the collar of his robes, as if they were choking him, and Hermione reached out to him, pressing him back against the mattress with a gentle hand, and unbuttoned the collar gripping his neck. That done, she began to undo the laces on his dragonhide boots. Bit by bit, Hermione bared her Professor as his features twisted in agony and his head fell back against the mattress. When she removed the sweat-soaked white shirt, revealing gooseflesh beneath the many layers of black, a twisting stain on his left forearm caught her eye and Hermione was momentarily petrified with fear and shock at her first glimpse of a live Dark Mark. But she tore her eyes away and hesitated when she realized that the only garment left was his trousers. But she bit her lip and bore it and soon he was naked and shivering.

Hermione stared down at the helpless creature stretched out beside her. He had once been her formidable Potions Master, seemingly invincible and uncaring. The man she had known would have despised her for seeing this weakness, and she wondered how the man before her would react. If anything, the Professor was more evil now than he had been then. In every way, he had only gotten worse. Hadn't he? The more she thought about it, the less she believed it. In some ways she had begun to see the more human side of Severus Snape. It was almost as if she had had a peek behind his stony mask.

Suddenly, the Professor began to convulse upon the mattress and Hermione panicked. She had read once in one of her parents' medical books that it was best to restrain a person having a seizure, so she threw herself onto the naked man and used her weight to hold his arms down as he thrashed beneath her. Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth and Hermione gasped in fear, but then his body suddenly relaxed. She leapt from the bed, searching aimlessly for something to stick in his mouth if he had another attack to keep him from biting his tongue. Rifling through his clothing on the floor, something slipped out to clatter against the hard stone. His wand.

For a long moment, Hermione was frozen to the spot, staring at the object that had been handed to her by Fate or Luck or Chance perhaps. And she did not know what to do. With a wand she could survive on her own. She could travel by apparition as she had with Harry and Ron during the summer before the end of the war. And if she came across anyone, she would be able to defend herself.

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe there were rebels in hiding as there had been before the war. Maybe she could make contact with them somehow and join forces to destroy the new regime.

She glanced at the Professor's helpless form. His head was tilted back, unsupported, and his chest was rising and falling with rapid, shallow breathing. Droplets of sweat collected in clusters around the gooseflesh of his grey-tinged skin. And his eyes were pinched closed in agony as he panted softly. For a moment, Hermione was reminded of the night she had watched him pleasure himself and the agonized expression that crossed his face when he came.

But this time, he truly was in pain. Hermione glanced back down at the wand, contemplating. This might be her only chance. Her eyes flickered back up to the Professor and found him watching her. He knew what she was thinking. And he was powerless to stop her. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then the Professor's eyes clenched and his back arched horribly against the bed.

Hermione snatched up the wand and leapt onto his bed without a second thought. Using her weight to restrain his convulsing body, she conjured a wooden spoon with the confiscated wand and reached for the man's jaw. His teeth were clenched tight with a strength at odds with the weakness of the Professor's body, but Hermione pinched hard at the base of his jaw, forcing his mouth to open and shoving the spoon inside.

It seemed an eternity before the tremors finally ceased and the naked professor gasped for breath as sweat blossomed across his skin. Hermione withdrew the spoon and moved to sit beside the pitiful man. He was whimpering faintly and tossing his head as if in the throes of a nightmare. "Please," he said. "forgive me." He was pleading and Hermione didn't understand. Was he referring to that night?

"Shhh," she told him, brushing the damp hair from his face. "It's alright," she soothed. Her touch seemed to calm him and his body finally relaxed. His skin was cold and clammy and he wouldn't stop shivering, so Hermione Summoned the plaid blanket at the foot of his bed and cast a warming charm around him. If it helped at all, he gave little indication, but she didn't know what else she could do. Poison, he had said. Why hadn't he used a bezoar, then? The Potions Master certainly knew a thing or two about poisons, so that must have meant that this particular one could not be cured with a bezoar. In that case, it must have been a truly awful poison, yet he hadn't taken any sort of antidote.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"For what, Professor?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I didn't mean it," he said, and the grief in his face was overwhelming though his eyes remained closed.

"Didn't mean what?" she asked him, but his body grew tense and she readied herself for another attack.

For hours Hermione watched him, helping him through the convulsions and soothing him when he relaxed. Every now and then he would mutter "I'm sorry," but whenever she asked him why, he didn't seem to hear her. As the hours passed, the fits grew farther and farther apart until Hermione found herself staring down at him for an eternity, waiting for an attack that never came. She stretched out beside him, never taking her eyes from his troubled face. And when she finally closed them, she told herself that she would feel his movements if he began to convulse again. It must have been dawn, though she could never be sure, but the Professor was asleep at last. His features were calm and untroubled. He was safe. And Hermione fell asleep.

She dreamt of Hogwarts and her parents' house and the shifting landscape of the Scottish countryside in the fall. Disconnected images of a life long gone; the blurred faces of friends she once knew; wandering broken hallways in a maze of uncertainty; waiting for something but never knowing what. It was all she had. It was all she knew. The sharp, memorized lines of the Professor's bedroom; rows upon rows of strangely-colored vials; using a wand to make them float through the air… dancing… swirling… emptying themselves into nothingness. One little empty vial clenched in her hand. Staring down at it. A million questions flashing through her mind.

A long groan jerked her immediately to attention and Hermione gasped softly at the shock of waking so quickly. Suddenly he was on top of her, his knees biting into her thighs as he pinned her shoulders with his hands. Her eyes flew wide even as the fear in his melted into comprehension. She had frightened him. That's all. But as she sighed in relief, she became suddenly aware of the stiff erection hanging between his thighs. He noticed it too and met her eye with a wary look. For a long moment, he seemed to consider, and she watched his eyes flicker through the possibilities though he gave no hint of emotion. But he glanced down at her body once more and met her eyes again with stern resolve. It took her breath away to watch his pupils dilate with sudden lust as he lowered his body to hers.

Suddenly, their mouths were together and her professor groaned deep in his throat at the soft contact. His lips slid over hers in desperation as his body began to move against her. One hand at her shoulder dipped down to cover her breast, kneading it roughly as his tongue pushed between her teeth. She whimpered involuntarily at the loss of control and he moaned in response. Then one hand slid down the length of her body in one smooth motion and her clothing vanished. She gasped as he groaned and pressed harder against her.

Before she knew it, he was nudging her thighs apart and taking himself in hand. In a panic, Hermione tried to push him away, but he caught her hands in one of his and held them over her head. His tongue rubbed against her own as he began to penetrate and he gave a shuddering gasp when he was inside. It didn't hurt so much this time, but was still a far cry from ecstasy.

The dark professor pressed slowly inside of her, relishing the sensation and breathing heavily against her nose. She could tell from the way his mouth pressed against hers that his mind was occupied more with the connection between their legs. And she had to admit… it didn't feel bad. In fact, she found herself kissing him back and he moaned aloud. For years, Hermione had sought this man's praise, and in this moment his approval was tangible. It felt powerful to please him at last and the mere thought caused a burst of sensation within her that fed a fire between her legs. His every movement stoked the burning excitement within her until she thought she might explode. "Please," she murmured desperately.

His eyes grew wide and he paused a moment, holding her still. "Gods," she heard him whisper. When he began again, his movements were slow and cautious, and every now and then he had to pause, as if in pain. She was confused by this strange behavior, and it dampened her excitement. Did she do something wrong?

"Please, Professor," she urged, lifting her body to his. His eyes fell closed as he moaned heavily and Hermione felt a flash of desire.

"Fuck," he muttered, and suddenly he was thrusting into her with an anxious vigor. He gripped her hip and hammered into her eagerly for a mere minute before tensing above her, and she felt his hot seed pouring inside of her as he gasped breathlessly.

Then he relaxed, and his eyes met hers. She could see his guilt as he pulled out of her and slipped out of the bed, but Hermione hadn't felt so elated in a very long time. And as he strode gracefully toward the bathroom, fully recovered from the night before, Hermione was filled with a heady satisfaction even as she wished it had not ended so soon.

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