Chapter 3

…*~*J*~*…

It is dangerous for a spy to practice self-deception. In order to lie effectively, one must be entirely honest with one's self. Severus Snape had mastered this skill with brutal self-deprecation. But it took every one of his not-inconsiderable years of practice to grudgingly admit that he didn't despise her as much as he'd like to believe.

Oh, Hermione Granger had certainly caused her share of grief in the Potions Master's life, but he had never truly hated her. Before she had the misfortune of connecting herself to the Potter brat, Miss Granger had even reminded him—rather painfully—of himself. She'd had no friends to speak of, poor personal grooming, and a predilection for learning unparalleled by her peers. For her—he had known without asking—reading was an escape from the unhappy truth of her own existence. Or at least, that is what he had believed. When she managed to obtain friends—something he had never quite accomplished—books had continued to take precedence. That startling fact unnerved Severus in a way he never could have predicted. Didn't she know that she was being given a chance? Didn't she realize that the doors were open to her, now? That she no longer needed to seek solace in the pages of the written word? She had her chance at freedom, but she chose to live in literature, instead. And what frightened him most was the realization that he likely would have done the exact same thing.

For years, Severus Snape had blamed his loneliness on others. On Lily, to be precise. It had been so much easier, placing blame on some external source. It justified his need to bury his nose in a book and be consumed by another world.

But Hermione Granger's friends never left her; and she never left her books.

Over the years, Severus had noted with irritation—and yes, if he were honest, envy—the way in which the Granger girl's penchant for learning never ceased, was never discouraged, and only ever seemed to grow. No matter how he humiliated her, how her friends teased, how her life progressed, she never stopped being the insufferable know-it-all he had once declared her to be. And he had to admire that fortitude of character. Grudgingly. And only in the back of his mind.

But to dream about her, sexually… was a different matter altogether. Severus had to admit that he had noticed her curvy figure the day he'd had the dream. And he'd be a sorry spy not to notice under the scrutiny to which he had subjected her! The weary man pulled a hand down his face in exasperation. He couldn't seem to close his eyes without seeing her body, stretched out and scantily clad. Fuck!

It wasn't just her body, though. That would be too simple; too easy. If he were honest with himself—truly, painfully honest with himself—he had to confess a certainty that the attraction sprung originally from her mind. Yes, Merlin revile him for the fool that he was, he admired the girl's intellect. Dammit.

Of course, that still didn't change the fact that she was his seventeen-year-old student! Disgusting. As rationally as he had analyzed the dream he'd had the other night, he still could not justify it to himself. His subconscious mind should have known better than to torment him with images he could never allow himself to revisit. Much as he wanted to call upon them late at night, as the darkness of his chambers threatened to consume him whole and he found himself finally alone, he could not. Those moments when he was not required to play a part or serve a master, and when he could not yet sleep, all he wanted to do was think of her and how she'd held him. And how she'd felt beneath him. Oh, how he longed to take himself in hand; to experience orgasm once again; to find relief from the stress of his existence in the thought of her breath on his skin. Merlin, how he wanted to dream of her again.

For in dreams, he could not tell himself that he was being lecherous and vile. He did not feel the guilt that a waking man feels as he thinks about a student with his hand around his cock. He would not constantly imagine her refusal in every possible combination of words; the more likely responses to his unwelcome advances. For in dreams, she could act on her own. And there, she had not rejected him.

…*~*J*~*…

Hermione found herself, once again, staring down at the little vial of milky liquid. She had not said goodbye to the Potions Master, and he would not be back for another week. But there was one way that she could see him. The trouble was, of course, that would involve stepping into a world where anything was possible; not unlike burying herself in a book. But here the stakes were real; or at least they seemed to be. After all, she hadn't actually died the night he dreamt of killing her. It had only felt as if it must be real.

Yes, she told herself, she could enter his dreams as she would a book and none of the consequences would follow her. It was just a dream. And she would see her professor. But why was it that she wanted to see her professor? She would be lying if she said she didn't hope that he touched her as he had the time before. But why him, then? She could dream with Ron and he would certainly be willing to enact the scenario with her. What was it about the dark, tortured man that made her want to slip beneath him in his bed and let him press inside her. She wanted to feel his soul against hers. She wanted to mean something to him.

That realization caused a flutter of panic inside her. Was this obsession just an offshoot of her need to please him? Could her newly found attraction to the man just be a product of her desire to have his approval? Hermione took a few deep breaths and then allowed herself to concentrate on the man, himself. Why is it that you like him, so?

He was mysterious, that was a certainty. Incredibly intelligent and learned, obviously. And mature, in a way that the boys in her class couldn't be. He was quiet and serious and tucked away all of his emotions from the light of day. But she knew that they were there. She had seen them. She had seen him vulnerable in his fear and pain and ecstasy. And she wanted to see it again. She craved that secret touch; the window into his soul. She wanted to revisit him, in the only way he would allow her. She wanted him to let her in, again.

And so she took the potion.

There was grass beneath her when she landed, this time. The dark of night seemed to suck at their souls, and all around them were Death Eaters and headstones.

Crucio! Screaming pierced the darkness and Hermione rolled over to grab the professor's hand. At once, he stopped. And turned to look at her. And gasped with relief as his eyes fell closed. The darkness of the scene dissolved and suddenly Hermione found herself stretched out on a couch with a book resting on her stomach. For a moment, she thought she had awakened. It only took a glance to recognize the distorted image of the study at Grimmauld Place and the dress she had been wearing earlier that very day. She had not realized he'd seen her lying there, and the thought send a shock of nervous pleasure to her core. She sighed contentedly at this world in which she had dissolved herself. He was standing in the doorway.

'Miss Granger,' his smooth baritone rolled across her skin as he stepped inside the room and closed the door. Perhaps she was seeing what he had wanted to happen today, if only reality were a dream.

'Professor,' she answered, feigning surprise and propping herself up on her elbows. Then inspiration struck and she lowered her lashes at him. 'I was just thinking about you.' She felt, rather than heard, his low growl of arousal as her own body seemed to tense with a sweet ache at the sound.

He was on her in an instant, but she was surprised when he sat beside her on the edge of the couch and stared down into her nervous face. Oh gods. This was the man who dreamt of sex with her, and he wanted it again, she knew. But this time, she wanted it, too.

One graceful hand was lifted to her cheek and she could feel his calluses against her skin. He tilted her chin up to face him and slowly lowered his mouth to hers. She only had a moment to gasp before he caught her in the embrace. Merlin. His mouth felt so remarkably soft against hers and his touch made her heart beat wildly and her body pulse with live electricity. His hand slipped into her hair, holding her captive and Hermione moaned. Yes, she was well and truly under his control, now. Funny, but she wasn't afraid at all.

When his tongue darted out to taste the seam of her lips, she opened for him and allowed him to thrust his tongue inside. He growled with ever more desperate arousal and pushed her farther back against the couch. She felt consumed as his tongue rubbed against her own and his hand trailed a lazy line down her neck to her torso, cupping her breast through the cotton of her dress. Hermione moaned. She had wanted to think that he wanted to touch her there. And yes, he had. But his hand did not stop there. It slipped down the long length of her stomach, briefly brushed the silky skin of her legs, and slipped between her thighs, cupping her mound. She gasped and bucked against his warmth, desperate for more of his touch.

Snape's mouth broke away and reconnected with her neck, sucking and biting the tender flesh there as he pressed his hand between her legs. Her panties seemed to disappear and she could feel his skin against her own. He moaned in desperation and thrust a finger inside. 'A virgin,' he whispered against her neck, nipping her skin with his teeth. She wasn't sure if he was pleased or disappointed. But as his finger slowly penetrated her, Hermione forgot her worries and allowed the sensation to wash over her. The pain was more acute than she remembered, but he was gentle, and his desperation to have her, despite the pain she knew it would cause, sent ripples of pleasure through her body. He added a finger, slowly stretching her as he panted into her shoulder, and began to curve them in just the right way. Pain burst into pleasure and Hermione bucked against his hand.

'Oh gods,' he murmured, 'you have no idea how badly I want you.'

Hermione moaned, this sweet torture was slowly driving her insane. 'I want you too,' she confessed.

He lifted his face to meet her eyes as his fingers gently pleasured her. There was disbelief there, and hope. But overwhelmingly, there was desire. 'Do you?' he asked her. She smiled.

'Yes. Please,' and she found that she really did want it. She wanted her professor to fuck her. Whether or not this was a dream.

He slid his fingers out of her and Hermione gasped with fear and excitement when he settled himself between her thighs. They were suddenly naked. Her professor seemed content to take his time, cupping her breasts and bringing his mouth to each one in turn. He wanted to taste her. Hermione moaned, reaching her hands into his hair and holding him against her, arching her back if only to be nearer.

His arm slipped around her waist and the other into her hair as he captured her lips once more and began to press inside her. He froze when he reached the boundary of her virginity, but Hermione, in her excitement, arched against him, begging him to enter. 'Please,' she whimpered into his mouth. He began to pull away and she was momentarily afraid that he would leave her. Then, with one great thrust, he was inside.

She cried out in agony and he softly peppered her face with kisses, a display of sensitivity so at odds with his character that Hermione forgot her pain. She caught his face in her hands and brought his mouth to hers, pushing her tongue between his lips as he rocked against her on the couch. He moaned and she echoed his response.

They began a steady rhythm. Hermione had never felt such pleasure in her life, and the knowledge that he was feeling it, too, made her want to weep with ecstasy. Finally, she was pleasing him. Snape panted above her, increasing the pace until it was almost too much for her to bear. His thrusts grew hard and desperate and he met her eye. She tried to hold it, communicating with him through the haze of pain and pleasure, but a moment of that had him crying out and freezing in place above her as he came. There it was; that glimpse past his masks and shields and lies. Then he collapsed beside her on a couch much wider than the real one and pulled her naked body up against his.

'Don't leave me,' he whispered, and she kissed his shoulder to tell him that she wouldn't. Closing her eyes, Hermione allowed the peacefulness to settle over her and marveled at the feel of Professor Snape's arms around her, naked. She had a sudden desire to see this side of him in real life; to be let past his mask without having to cheat. But that would never happen. If the man knew… if he ever found out… she could not imagine the disaster that would be. So she snuggled up against him as their breathing slowed and their bodies relaxed and Hermione drifted off to sleep.

She woke in her bed at Grimmauld Place, all alone, and began to cry.

…*~*J*~*…

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