I want to give a huge thank you to my brand-new beta, Irononmaiden! She pointed out several errors I would have otherwise missed. Any grammatical mistakes that remain are either due to my own oversight or deliberately left in at my discretion. Enjoy!
As the end of their three months drew closer, Severus warred with himself. Half of the time he wanted to go to Madam Peony's every night and spend as much time with H as he could. The other half of the time he felt like he needed to gain some distance and perspective. He had become quickly obsessed with a woman whose name he didn't even know. They had an arrangement. One which benefited both of them. That should have been the end of it. So why did he crave her as soon as he left?
He made it almost a week without seeing her by reminding himself that when their time was up he would never see her again. But by the end of that week he was nearly mad with the need to see her, touch her, be inside her. He apparated to Madam Peony's and barely gave the proprietor a glance on his way up the stairs to H's room. She yawned and rolled her eyes, by now more than used to his impatience to see Hyacinth.
With hardly more than a cursory knock on her door, Severus strode into the room and drank in the sight of H. She turned quickly from where she was sitting with her back to him. He was in front of her and pulling her into his arms before he realized she didn't have her anonymity charm on. Wide brown eyes met his; a pert, full mouth parted in surprise; wild brown hair tumbled over her shoulder.
"H-Hermione Granger?" The syllables sounded all wrong on his tongue, as if he'd jumbled them up instead of speaking clearly. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He released her as if she'd burned him. There had to be some mistake. Disbelief hit him like an avalanche, followed by a crash of other emotions that left him frozen to the spot. Shock, disgust, horror, anger, lust, indignation, sadness. They slammed into him in waves, each one rocking him to his core.
"Damn, damn, damn!" Dimly, he heard her voice. Her real voice. The one he'd heard in his classroom nearly every day for six years. It was lower now, throatier. How many times had he heard that voice laugh with delight as he pleasured her? How many times had he wrung screams of satisfaction from that throat? Gods, how many times had he fucked that throat? He stumbled back. She whirled back around and covered her face with her hands. As if that could make him unsee what he'd seen. The soft, over-sized t-shirt she slept in barely covered her ass and he had the sudden urge to cover her. To protect her modesty, as if that could make up for the fact that he'd had his cock buried in her ass twenty minutes after he'd first met her here.
He couldn't take another moment. He turned, and for the second time ever in his life, fled.
/
Hermione felt her face flame with shame. Someone who knew her. Of fucking course. It had to be someone who knew her. The way he'd said her name, the absolute horror on his face, made it perfectly clear to her that S was someone she had known in her old life and someone who never would have been intimate with her had he known who she was. For a fleeting moment she had the terrible thought that perhaps S was Lucius Malfoy, but that was impossible. The build was similar, yes, but Lucius was safely in Azkaban. Before those thoughts could get any further, she stopped them. She didn't want to know. She didn't need the further humiliation of knowing who he was and how he'd known her.
Clearly, he had no desire to be with her knowing who she was. Why did that sting? Why did the prospect of never seeing him again pierce her to the core? He was just another John. A customer she was required to service. The fact that he'd brought her pleasure, that they'd laughed together, shared intimacy deeper than she'd ever known, didn't change the facts. She was a whore, and he'd been paying to use her body. That was all there was to them. And now that he knew who she was, that had come to an end.
The only thought that brightened her despair was the fact that she'd nearly saved enough money to leave the brothel. She'd planned to stay only two more weeks. Had there been some fairy tale in the deep recesses of her mind that he would be her last customer and they would ride off into the proverbial sunset together? She laughed bitterly. There were no such thing as fairy tales.
/
Severus barely noticed the whoosh of appiration as he landed on his street and made his way toward his house in a daze. Hermione Granger. Hermione fucking Granger. Harry Potter's best friend. The brains of the Golden Trio. The bushy haired know-it-all. And he'd been fucking her regularly for months. He'd specifically gone to brothels out of the country to avoid ex-students. The idea of sex with one of the children he'd taught was so completely abhorrent to him that he couldn't even contemplate it.
He thought about all the times he'd stripped her naked and tasted her skin. The filthy things he'd said to her. The times he'd been rough with her, held her down, spanked her, put his hand on her throat and squeezed. And then he recalled with startling clarity the first time he'd ever seen her. She'd been eleven years old, with buck teeth and hair that practically stood on end. He felt like a pedophile. Images of her growing up under his watchful eye flashed behind his eyes. Revulsion coiled through him with sharp barbs.
On the heels of those thoughts came the burning question of why. What on earth had led Hermione Granger to a brothel in Ireland? How had such a brilliant young woman been reduced to whoring? Surely it hadn't been a willing choice. But when he'd known her, she had been awash with friends and fans. He recalled that there had been some sort of scandal a few years back when the Weasley boy had died, but that couldn't have reduced her circumstances that badly, could it have? And if so, where had her friends been? Even with Potter gone, there were others...
The magnitude of it all hit him again and he sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to think of all the things he'd done with her, to her. Of how callously he'd used her body for his own pleasure. But how could he have known? It wasn't uncommon for whores to use anonymity charms. He used one himself. He'd taken every precaution he could. And still, he'd done what he'd sworn he never would.
Worse, he'd bared more to her than anyone else. She knew his secret delights, his hidden pleasures. She'd seen the soft side of him and reveled in his tenderness. The indignity of it was too much to be borne. The idea of her knowing those things about him was humiliating. Suddenly, he was seething with anger. Why the hell had she even been there? It seemed as if this was just one more thing that had been stolen from him. He'd lost his childhood, his best friend, his hopes of a fulfilling adult life, any chance at a happy future. Now, he'd had his one remaining pleasure in life tainted. He didn't care if she hadn't done it maliciously; she'd ruined one of the few good things he had left.
Each time he thought he knew how he felt, another wave crashed into him and sent him reeling. Guilt stung him for his callous thoughts of her. He'd spent so many years of his life protecting her. Despite knowing she wasn't his responsibility any longer, he couldn't help but feel he'd failed her. So terribly. He knew that she had no reason to trust him or turn to him for help, but had it even crossed her mind to seek aid from the man who'd sheltered her for half her life? How many others had turned her down? If he was being completely honest with himself, he would have tried to blast her off his front step if she'd shown up at his house...but if he knew how bad things had gotten for her, what her only other option was, of course he would have helped her.
All the stories she'd told him, the memories she'd shared with him, blended together with what he remembered of the girl from Hogwarts. It was Hermione who'd been pinned by the Animagus. Hermione who'd had to let men beat her if they paid for the right. Hermione who'd been so desperate that she turned to selling her body to strangers. And it was Hermione who'd accepted his deal so eagerly because it would give her a chance to free herself that much sooner.
The stubborn, know-it-all little girl he'd known years ago had grown into the woman he'd spent so many nights in sexual delight with. Somehow he had to accept that they were the same person. But when he tried to put Hermione's face on the body he'd tasted every inch of, his mind recoiled.
He spent the next several days in a daze, passing from one emotion to the next helplessly. He would fly into a fit of rage and then find himself wracked with guilt the next moment. Thinking about the things they'd done together made him feel sick, but he dreamed of her body and woke aching with lust. Finally, it seemed the one feeling that remained was grief. It was all encompassing. Grief for what he'd lost, grief for what she'd endured, grief for the way his memories of her would be forever tainted. With the truth of her identity as Hermione revealed, H had died. And nothing could bring her back.
Telling himself that he would have lost her soon anyways was no help to him. If she'd left the brothel without him learning who she was, he could have kept his memories of their time together as recompense. He would have moved on to another whore and fantasized about it being H's legs he was driving between. She would have seduced him in his dreams for years to come. Instead, he couldn't look back at their dalliance without being plagued by guilt and disgust.
Perhaps worst of all, was that he still wanted her. His body still craved hers the way a junkie craves their next hit. He wanted the physical release she gave him, the intimacy they shared, the comfort that only being with her could bring him. Despite knowing who she was, despite hating himself for his weakness, he still wanted her. And as the days passed, he found himself making excuses. He'd already been inside her so many times that once more couldn't damn him any further. He'd more than paid for the right anyways. She still had no idea who he was so she wouldn't care. She'd never have to know. He could have her one last time- taste her, feel her, memorize every curve of her body- and then never see her again.
By the time he needed to make his weekly delivery, he'd solidified his decision. And why not? Nothing good had ever been given to him. Anything he had that was worth having, he'd had to pay for in blood or pieces of his soul. Madam Peony didn't raise an eyebrow at his impatience to get up to see Hyacinth after the delivery, though she was surprised he'd stayed away so long. For months he'd been using the girl to near exhaustion, and then suddenly it was as if he hardly recalled her existence. If not for his eagerness to get up to her when he did visit, she'd have thought he had grown tired of her.
This time he didn't bother to knock before entering her room. She wouldn't be with another customer this time of night and she had no more need of her anonymity charm. The room was mostly dark, lit only by a soft glow from the nightstand. Hermione was lying in bed, but her eyes were open.
For a week, she'd been thinking about what had happened between them. She'd obsessed over every minute detail. She'd pored over her every memory of them together. At first, she'd wanted nothing more to do with him. She hadn't wanted to know who he was or how he'd known her. All that would do was humiliate her further. What difference did it make how they'd known each other in her old life? He'd made it clear that he'd been disgusted to find out that she was who he'd been sleeping with.
But then, as the nights passed and he didn't return, it began to eat at her. Had they gone to school together? But he'd seemed older than that. Someone she'd worked with at the ministry? One of Ron's brothers, perhaps? The fleeting thought that maybe it was Snape crossed her mind and she dismissed it as laughable. So who? Who had she spent the last months with sharing her body and soul with?
The question of whether he would come to her again before the end of her time at Madam Peony's tormented her. If he didn't, then she would never know his name. The entire time they'd been together that fact hadn't bothered her, but now it haunted her. She couldn't get it from her mind. Each night she stayed up, laying awake in bed hoping he would come sweeping into her room and demand an explanation. Demand one more night with her. Demand she leave with him. Anything at all. So often had she played the scene in her mind that when her door opened and he loomed in the semi-darkness, at first she didn't believe it. But no, he really was there. He stepped inside and the soft light shone on his face. It was still charmed to hide his true features from her. Disappointment stabbed her.
He strode to the bed and without a word started to unbutton his shirt. She could see his long, nimble fingers trembling on the buttons. His normally swift and sure movements seemed jerky and forced. Naked, he got onto the bed with her and doused the light. The darkness felt like a shield to both of them. When he reached for her, she put her hand on his chest to stop him.
"Tell me who you are," she whispered pleadingly. He released her instantly and withdrew. "No! Please. I can't bear not knowing. You never have to see me again. You never have to touch me again if you don't want to. But I have to know."
In the darkness, it was H's voice he heard. It was H's body he felt next to his. The anguish in her tone tore at him. But how could he face the shame of revealing himself to her? If she knew who he was, she wouldn't let him touch her, payment or no. He'd waited too long, needed her too badly, to leave without having her one last time.
"Don't speak. I can show you my face and we can hate each other after. But I need once more with you." Confident in the absolute darkness, he let his anonymity charm fall away and removed his voice distortion. When they were done, he would turn on the lights and she could see the beast she'd taken to her bed. But in the meantime, he pulled her to him and kissed her desperately. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, touching, stroking, teasing. Rumbling sounds of pleasure escaped his throat, deeper than she'd ever heard him before. When she framed his face with her hands she felt no stir of magic. He was taking her as utterly himself. The idea of it left a bittersweet ache in her. His urgency swept her along with him until she was as desperate to have him as he was to have her.
Severus let his fingers touch every inch of her skin. He inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. When he buried himself inside her, he stayed still and memorized the feel of her gripping him with tight heat. Each stroke felt like a welcome as well as a farewell. Her lips tasted sweet, and each time her breath whispered past his ear, he swore he heard the call of nirvana. No matter how hard he thrust, he couldn't seem to get himself deep enough inside her. He stretched out their joining until they were both slick with sweat, until their skin was hyper sensitized, until they were both out of their minds with the need to reach completion. Then, finally, he let her come around him and poured himself into her. His every thought of her, his every desire for her, his every need of her, he put into that final thrust. Even when their hearts started to calm and their breath returned, he didn't pull out. He buried his face in her hair and burned this memory into his brain. He embedded her so deeply inside him that he would never be free of her. This version of her. H, the woman he'd shared his mind and body with. Not Hermione Granger, the woman who very soon would be vomiting in disgust at what she'd allowed him to do to her.
As time ticked past, he knew he couldn't put it off any longer. Slowly, reluctantly, he extricated himself from her arms and moved slightly away. He doubted she would want to be touching him when she saw his face. He swallowed hard and raised his wand. He'd never been a coward and he wouldn't start now.
"Lumos."
Hermione had a flash of recognition at the deep baritone, an instant where her mind already knew him while her eyes were blinded by the sudden light. Still, it wasn't until she blinked and saw him lying there that she fully believed it. Professor Severus Snape was naked in her bed. His chest was still damp with her sweat, his release still warm inside her. She gasped, unable to comprehend what she knew on so many levels to be true.
Unable to bear her scrutiny, Severus rose and with a spell, clothed himself in an instant. Still, she said not a word. If there had been any lingering doubt as to whether she might accept him, it was obliterated in those moments. Forcing himself to adopt his most haughty, sneering countenance, he started to leave.
"Professor, wait-"
"Don't call me that!" he hissed at her. She blanched, drawing the cover up over her breast as if she could shield herself from his venomous glare. "I suggest," he drawled in that voice she knew so well, "that we both try and erase this horrendous turn of events from our minds. In a week you'll be gone and we will never have to see each other again."
Hermione was aghast. How could this be the same man who'd come to her bed, starving for the taste of her? The same man who'd held her as if he never wanted to let her go, kissed her as if she was the only thing in the world he cared about, gave himself to her as if he was hers utterly and completely? He'd come here knowing who she was, and still he'd wanted her. So why was he suddenly so cruel?
Before she could find any words to say, he turned and left. The slam of the door rang in her ears and she hardly believed that she really heard it. Then she shot off the bed and tore out into the hallway. How could that be the way they left things between them? She could barely comprehend who he was, let alone that this would be the last time she saw him. He was already on the landing when she called out. He had a split second to take in one last look of her. Eyes wide with confusion, hair wild and tousled, lips swollen from his kisses, body barely covered by the nightshirt she clutched to her chest.
Hermione saw him turn back to her for a moment. She thought perhaps she saw pain in those dark eyes. Remorse on his pinched face. And then he was gone. The crack of apparition resounded in the brothel and he'd vanished as if he'd never been there at all. Dumbfounded with shock, she turned and made her way back to her room. Severus Snape. How had she not realized? Suddenly, all the things he'd said, every gesture she'd recognized but failed to really see, the phrases she'd heard before, the familiarity of the way he moved, hit her with staggering force. The answer had been staring her in the face all along, and she'd been somehow willfully ignorant.
Severus Snape was the man who'd been both callous and kind with her body. The man who'd had her in every way a man could have a woman. The man who'd brought her more pleasure than she'd had any right to expect. He was the one she'd shared her worst memories with. Confided in. Took solace in. How could the sometimes rough, sometimes tender lover who ruled her body in sweet dominion be the same man who'd been the antagonist of her childhood? She could clearly see him in the dungeons, long black robes billowing behind him as he swept down the corridor. She could hear the acid in his voice as he dismissed her ideas and insulted her efforts.
How was she supposed to force the two men into one being? Yes, S had been snarky and demanding. He'd showed his temper, run hot one moment and cold the next. But he'd also showed himself capable of great compassion. He'd enjoyed her spunk and her fire. When she challenged him, it turned him on. That didn't sound like the professor she'd known all those years ago. She was so hopelessly lost. And now that she'd realized that there were so many things she wanted to ask him, things she needed to say to him, he was gone and she would never see him again.