Work Text:
Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago
Idealism sits prison, chivalry fell on it's sword
Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know
I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door
Babe, there's something wretched about this
Something so precious about this
Where to begin?
-Hozier, “From Eden”
Hermione thought she had planned for every possible outcome.
She had been organising their escape for months, meticulously planning every detail she could control. Her beaded bag rattled with options, and as her mind darted through anxious scenarios, she tried to cram even more things inside. Books related to spellcasting, curses, healing, cooking, duelling, history, and potion-making had been crammed inside, all of them fastidiously tabbed and highlighted and indexed to ensure that the information inside could be easily referenced. She brewed potions, stealing whatever remained from the Weasley’s cabinets and Hogwarts ingredients; Slughorn was an idiot, and barely noticed how drastically his stores had dwindled, so Hermione became very bold indeed, nicking almost everything that wasn’t nailed down.
The most agonising decision had been figuring out a way to keep her parents safe. She created elaborate scenarios in her head, imagining their reactions. Mum, Dad, I’m leaving on holiday to Romania. Mum, Dad, I’m getting married. Mum, Dad, I got an apprenticeship in America. None of them would work—her parents would write to her, visit her perhaps, and most distressingly, they would simply remain at her childhood home, unaware of any dangers when Death Eaters came to call on them. Memory charms were the only way, she realised, the thought filling her belly like a gutshot. A complicated one. Erasing a daughter from their memory would be so large, it might be irreversible. She had to make this decision knowing that there might not be a way back—she might be losing her parents forever.
She made this decision months before their sixth year had ended, knowing war was simmering on the horizon. It angered her to realise that Ron and Harry hadn’t even begun to think of options—indeed, in Harry’s case, he had no family to protect—but Hermione knew what happened to Muggles during Wizarding wars.
She knew what happened to Mudblood witches too, and it was this thought that woke her up, gasping, bathed in cold sweat.
Of all the things she planned on getting rid of to ensure Harry’s quest would be uninterrupted, her virginity did not enter her thoughts.
But once the thought was in her mind it consumed everything, spreading through her neurons like a poison, like a curse, like an infection, taking an unshakable root in the fact that she was a girl . What happened to women in wars was always written off as collateral damage, at least in history books, another meaningless statistic to memorise and recite. Ten thousand dead, twelve hundred raped. Spoils of war, women were called. That’s what she would be. A spoil of war.
And she was a Mudblood. Not only a Mudblood, but the close friend of Harry Potter, a member of the Golden Trio, as they were called. She would be the one they treated most cruelly. She had nothing to protect her—Ron was a Pureblood, Ron had a family, Ron was a man. Harry was the Chosen One , the thought tasting bitter in her mouth, Harry would be killed by Voldemort himself and no one else. If anything, her torture might be used to inflict pain upon Harry .
But it wasn’t the looming potentiality of her rape and torture that woke her up that night—this she had already considered, albeit abstractly, and set it aside. No use planning for something like that.
No, what woke her up was the realisation that the virginity of witches was a potent, magically powerful artefact in its own right—although the physical status of virginity was useless, arbitrary, nothing that mattered in the Muggle world beyond what humans applied to it, in the Wizarding world it was quite different. She hadn’t had sex yet—sex between wizards tangled magic, although briefly, and it was this fact that was utilized in many different branches of Dark magic. “Virgin blood” only meant blood that hadn’t previously been used in sacrifice, but virgin magic was different. The rite and ritual of claiming virginal female magic was used in all manner of cruel, abhorrent ways.
At first she tried to convince herself she was overreacting. Her default approach: usually, she was. Be logical, she told herself, lying bolt-awake in bed, this was an easily rectified situation. She simply had to fuck Ron.
In the dark, her nose crinkled. That was an unpleasant scenario to envision. Well, not wholly unpleasant. But surely the fastest and easiest option. Anyone would do, man or woman, but the only person who had ever shown romantic or sexual interest in her had been Ronald Weasley. Hermione knew she was not attractive, knew she didn’t inspire thoughts of romanticism or flights of fantasy within the male species. Whatever quality other women possessed that had men fawning and flocking to them, she didn’t have, and had no idea how to pretend she did.
So Ron would have to suffice.
“I’m not doing that,” Ron spluttered, horrified.
“You must,” she said dully.
His blue eyes were round with horror, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m not gonna—you’re not—not like this!” he insisted.
A muscle jumped in her jaw. “We have to prepare for every scenario, Ron,” she said, and she heard a petulant tone creeping into her voice despite her best efforts. “You know what happens to Muggleborn witches. I’m not going to risk it.”
His face was a mask of disgust, and she thought that perhaps he didn’t know. Didn’t realise what situation they were in. Or he did, and was ashamed he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Either way, he was quiet and hissed out between clenched teeth, “That’s not going to happen, Hermione. It won’t. I won’t let it.”
“How do you plan on doing that if you’re dead?” Hermione shot back. “Or in a Body-Bind? Or also being tortured?” He seemed so stricken, and that tight band of steel around her stomach she had felt since Dumbledore died loosened slightly. She reached out and took his hand. “It won’t take long.”
“I don’t want to do it like this,” Ron croaked, his throat closed. “Not like that. Not to save you, or anything. I want to if you want to.” Something hopeful shone in his eyes. “Do you?”
She had to bite back an exasperated laugh. Did she want to? No, she didn’t want to lose her virginity to Ron Weasley. She’d rather not lose her virginity at all in fact, she had better things to do, and she didn’t have a lot of time to do them. Part of her—a tiny, girlish part of her, the part that longed for straight hair and lacy pink dresses—was embarrassed it wasn’t already gone. Most of the girls in her dormitory had been sneaking out to meet boys since their fifth year, brazen little lions applying lipstick and Glamour charms to entice boys into dark corridors and hallways or abandoned classrooms. Here she was at seventeen with absolutely no sexual experience, except Viktor Krum breathing hot in her ear with a large hand on her breast.
Ron must have interpreted the look on her face because he looked away, crestfallen. “I don’t want to, then,” he said quietly. “If we…y’know…I want it to be because we want to do it.” He was bright red.
Anger sparked in her, fast and hot, and she suddenly very much wanted to slap him. Stupid Ron. Stupid Ron not understanding. Stupid Ron with some childhood crush or fantasy or imagination about the two of them losing their virginities together, awkward and romantic and hopeful and in love. Stupid Ron not realizing they were in a war, that they were about to become fugitives, that everyone connected to them was in danger. Every possible avenue had to be blocked off, not a centimetre could be given to the other side.
No retreat. No quarter.
“Fine,” she snapped, glacial and raw, “I’ll find someone else.”
“That’s not what I—’Mione! Hang on!” Ron reached for her, but she yanked away so hard she nearly fell. She stormed off, the blood ringing in her ears, away from her only reasonable option.
Fine. If the first plan wouldn’t work, she’d start on a backup. Every good plan had a backup.
Harry was scarlet. “Hermione,” he began slowly.
“Don’t tell me no,” she said, with the icy air of a commanding general, “and don’t say I’m overreacting, Harry, because I’m not. Things happen to witches during these kinds of wars. They could use it to hurt me, or you, or Ron, or who knows how many other people. I just need it to be gone.”
“It won’t come to that,” Harry told her, and it sounded as though he were convincing himself. “Hermione, it won’t. We’re not going to get captured, the Order will—”
“The Order might be killed, Harry,” Hermione retorted, “Voldemort could kill them all in order to get to us. This is war, Harry. Anything could happen.”
“Not this,” Harry said, with such conviction that Hermione almost believed him for a hair of a second. “This won’t happen to you, Hermione, I won’t let it.”
She wanted to burst out laughing, but she knew if she did it would sound half-crazed and maniacal. The empty laugh echoed around her head in dizzy circles but she didn’t let it escape from between her teeth. Her mouth was a thin, hard line.
“This is your best option to protect me, Harry,” Hermione tried again, this time from between jaws that felt as though they had been welded shut. “Preventative measures are always best.”
He scrubbed his face with his hands, pushing his glasses up to his brow, and then pressed his fingers hard into his eyes. “I can’t,” he said, after a long moment. “Ginny—”
That was all she needed to hear. Hermione turned away.
“Hermione, no, wait—”
She was out of reasonable options.
That night, lying rigid and sleepless in bed, she tried to force her brain to relax. It was spinning in fast, insane circles, leaping from option to option at breakneck speeds. Maybe the boys were right, maybe she was overreacting, but she wanted to be as prepared as possible, and she could not leave something deliberately undone. With her luck, it would be the deciding factor of the war, and there was no way she was about to let that happen.
With sheer willpower, she slowed her breathing, trying to trick her heart and brain into thinking she was relaxed. About to drift off to sleep. Easy, now, Granger, just settle down.
Hermione’s brain didn’t stop buzzing circuitously until very late, when her eyes felt heavy and gritty, and she was about to let herself fall completely. It wasn’t until she turned over, pausing to untangle her own hair from around her neck, that she hit upon her solution.
Her hair needed a wash.
And that made her think of the best, worst, only solution to her problem.
The door to the Headmaster’s office was open. Seeing the mighty oaken door ajar was almost as unsettling as watching the stone gargoyle ripple wordlessly to the side without the prompting of a password. Severus Snape stood uneasily in the doorway, looking at Dumbledore’s office, exactly how the old man had left it. A moment frozen in time, full of whimsy and knowledge and cunning. The whirring machinery and delicate artefacts were a facade, much like Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes and calm demeanour, with the cool calculation lurking just beneath, skirting out of sight.
It took less than a minute for Severus to strip the room bare.
The urge to destroy it all, lash the room with fire, expel Confringo after Confringo until the room was ashes, roared up in his chest but it ignored it with practised calm. Vanishing the objects would do. With a flick of his wand, the papers on the desk shuffled and organised themselves. The fireplace leapt merrily to life, casting cheery light throughout the room.
With that out of the way, Severus sat at the desk and looked out at the room. There was a bare spot of stone in front of the hearth, that from here looked perfectly ordinary. He knew that was the place he had dropped to his knees, over and over, begging Dumbledore to make a different choice, ask something else of him, to save Lily, to save anyone .
But from behind the Headmaster’s desk, it looked like a bit of floor.
He would spend as much time as possible in this room, he knew already. Gone were the days of his spare solitude in the dungeons, of reading in the staff lounge, of listening to Minerva and Flitwick bicker over House points. He had publicly chosen a side. And although the consequences for his murder of Albus Dumbledore would be nonexistent at this point—the Ministry was still officially “investigating,” and doing a deliberately piss-poor job of it—the staff of Hogwarts knew. The castle itself knew. Snape was alone, and soon he would be adopting his Death Eater persona full-time. There would be no gap between the Order member and the servile right-hand of the Dark Lord. It had to be seamless.
Alone and brooding, he almost didn’t hear the tap at the window.
A tawny owl, vaguely familiar, rapped on the window with its beak. A scrap of parchment was attached to its proffered leg, and Severus accepted it with some trepidation. There was a gob of red sealing wax, but no seal, and the parchment itself seemed like a hastily torn scrap instead of a proper letter.
After a moment of careful examination, he broke the seal. It had to have been enchanted, because as soon as he did so, a Patronus swam gracefully into view, dazzling and white.
An otter, caterwauling through the air, turning gentle, cheerful somersaults, drifted around him and then spoke with Hermione Granger’s taut, whispered voice.
“Fourth year, your response to Draco Malfoy hexing me.”
Snape looked from the disappearing otter to the curiously blank piece of parchment in hand. A frisson of anger stole up his spine, mixed equally with a familiar leaden guilt. Words spoken to a fourteen year old girl, teeming with insecurity and fear, resulting in her crying as she ran towards the Hospital Wing with her hands covering her gigantic teeth. Not the first time he had insulted the Granger girl, and certainly not the last, but at least to her, it had been the most memorable.
“I see no difference,” he drawled softly, and words bloomed on the parchment in front of him.
Her handwriting was tiny and militantly neat, the words in all capital letters, miniscule and rapt.
I need your help. Leaky Cauldron, Room #221, Saturday, 4:00pm.
You are the only one I can trust.
He read and reread the writing, and as soon as it was memorised, the parchment vanished in flame. Snape almost laughed aloud, a humourless bark—such a patently obvious trap. Did the Order think him so foolish to walk into fire at the plea of a young girl? And why now, why before the Ministry had fallen and the world was in chaos and his allegiance was solidified? Were they so eager to be rid of him? Had the only thing keeping him alive had been Dumbledore’s graces, after all?
And why would they use the Granger girl, why not Harry? He had no relationship with her, perhaps a handful of barbed insults leveraged at precipitant moments during her education, but no bonds of affection or rivalry.
Unless it was about Harry. Unless the Granger girl, with her not-insignificant brain, had unravelled some plot or scheme that would topple the Order and take the blasted Chosen One down with it. Was there a spy in their midst? That was almost as likely an option—despite his declarations to the contrary, the only member of the Golden Trio who had any brains or competency was Granger, after all.
He steepled his fingers and stared pensively into the fire. There was a choice to be made, and plans to be set. He would not walk knowingly into a trap, and he also could not tip his hand towards the Order where a Dark Lord sympathiser might see.
Whatever Granger wanted with him, it was a desperate gamble. If the Order thought he could be brought down by a seventeen year old girl, no matter how formidable her intellect, they would be wrong.
She sat rigidly on the edge of the lumpy mattress. A peculiar feeling of nausea and emptiness was filling up inside her, swallowing her stomach and leaving nothing behind. This was it. The clock on the wall read 3:49. If he was coming, he was here already, sniffing around a trap, inspecting the flaws and ascertaining no danger would befall him the moment he set foot through the door.
She had warded the room heavily, creating as many permanent charms as she could for a borrowed room, hoping he would feel the wards and recognise she had no desire to hurt him. Half of her knew, logically, that he wouldn’t come, he wouldn’t risk his exposure in such a way, so blatantly obeying the orders of a known Harry Potter ally.
He was a Death Eater, after all.
This was the riskiest gamble she had ever tried, the highest possible stakes. She was gambling that Severus Snape belonged to the side of the light, that Severus Snape was a good man—but not so good of a man that he wouldn’t do this. She was gambling that he was a pragmatist, a spy, and that he would do anything to ensure the right side won.
Including murder. Implicitly in this gamble, she was deciding that he had killed Dumbledore at his own request. That perhaps was the most fearsome risk of all. She could be inviting a cold-blooded murderer between her legs. He could have passed along her request to a dozen other Death Eaters, perhaps Voldemort himself, and they would all descend on her in—she checked the clock again—six minutes.
The actual enormity of her request was beginning to fill the space between her ribs, stretching her. The empty nausea was stronger now, making a cold sweat break out on her scalp. Was she going to vomit? She tried to envision Severus Snape fucking her. His cock inside of her. The image refused to form in her brain—she had never even seen him under-dressed, never mind naked.
Would it hurt?
She vomited quickly, unceremoniously, into a wastepaper basket, and then Vanished it. A breath cleansing charm erased the evidence, but it couldn’t stop the cold sweat still prickling through her bushy hair.
Three minutes.
Hermione was not a fanciful little girl, but her idealism was blinding at times. Perhaps this was a grave miscalculation. He might even laugh at her—she thought that would hurt worse than any physical pain. Rage at Harry and Ron filled her, coupled inextricably with grief at the fact that she had to make this decision at all. Why couldn’t one of them have just done it?
Because they love you, Hermione told herself wearily. She needed someone who didn’t love her. He might even hate her. That would be just fine—she didn’t need him to like her, she needed him to do his duty . She needed someone good enough to do the right thing, to help save Harry, but also terrible enough to do this despite neither of them actually wanting to.
It would be a lot easier if she loved him, Hermione mused, nauseous again. If she had been harbouring some secret crush or torch after all these years. But there wasn’t even a glimmer of attraction towards him. He was old, a snarling overgrown bat who delighted in bullying children, herself included. A thought lanced through her mind—he might even delight in hurting her. Perhaps he hated her so much he would accept her offer, only to make it as unpleasant as possible.
A desperate glance at the clock. One minute. She didn’t have time to vomit again, so she buried her face in her hands and struggled to control her breathing.
Get over yourself, Granger, she told herself sternly, and looked at herself in the mirror. A white-faced, wild-eyed girl looked back, glassy and empty, but her eyes were free from tears. Her body seemed unattached to her brain at the moment, moving on autopilot, as though she could see herself in the third person.
At precisely four o’clock, there was a knock at the door, and the bottom to Hermione’s stomach dropped out.
It wasn’t a trap. That much he was certain. But there was absolutely no way to determine who or what was on the opposite side of the door, as heavily guarded as it was, and he loathed walking into situations unprepared. It extended far beyond a personal preference—gathering information and wielding it effectively was what had kept him alive thus far.
He knocked at the door brusquely, expecting it to fly open at once, to be pounced on by the bushy haired Gryffindor, or perhaps hexed into the opposite wall. He had his wand extended at the ready, bristling with anticipation, unwilling to set foot inside until he had verification of its occupants.
The door remained shut.
From the other side, muffled: “Third year. Confusing Concoctions. You wrote a note in the margins. What was it, and what was my grade?”
Annoyance and relief rippled through him in equal measure. The twit on the other side of the door was a very cautious Hermione Granger, that was to be sure, and her insistence at verifying his identity was wise. But she seemed determined to remind him of his cruelty.
“I believe I merely wrote ‘unremarkable’ and gave you an Exceeds Expectations,” Severus growled, “although I might have added ‘insipid’ beneath a particularly lengthy sentence.”
The door squeaked open, and half of her face appeared, bisected by the door. “It was idiotic, not insipid,” she muttered, before opening the door further.
He didn’t move.
“Fifth year, an idiotic friend of yours attempted to add an ingredient to their Strengthening Solution that would have exploded half the classroom,” Snape said, his wand still directed at her. “Which classmate. What ingredient.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she seemed almost relieved that he was being equally trepidatious. “Harry,” she said, and the name alone carried such obvious affection it irked him. “He tried adding pomegranate juice. I stopped him.”
Snape lowered his wand. She followed suit.
The door shut behind him, wards chiming softly as they melted back together. He folded his arms. “Who knows you’re here?”
She met his gaze, golden-brown eyes flat and dry. “No one.”
“What an incredibly stupid risk,” he breathed.
“Going to kill me?” she asked, challenging and fierce. “I’d wager no one knows you’re here, either.”
A beat of silence as he examined her, unscruitable. “That would be correct.”
“Not much of a risk then, is it?” Hermione said, and turned away from him. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already.”
“Perhaps I’m attempting to get information from you,” Severus pointed out, sneering, “something which you seem far too willing to give me.”
Her eyes weren’t flat—they were dead.
“I don’t think anyone will want this information,” she said, her voice far away. “I—I need to ask you for a favour.”
He was silent. Appalled. Of all people, of the whole Order, she needed a favour ? His wand hand twitched imperceptibly.
“I’ve been making arrangements for…the future,” Hermione began, faltering. “Potions. Books. Food. That sort of thing. Trying to get things in place for…when it all happens.”
Of course, it was Granger running around figuring out logistics and practicalities. He wagered that Weasley and Potter hadn’t even begun to comprehend the enormity of the war in front of them, what would be asked of them, what would be sacrificed, what others had sacrificed for them. They were on the precipice of losing everything, and the only one who seemed to be doing any work was Granger.
“I have almost everything,” she continued, “My parents are safe. Elsewhere. I wiped their memories.” She turned to look at him then, as if this was supposed to impress or horrify him. He was somehow both. “They’ll be safer that way.”
She seemed to be steeling her nerves, building up courage, like shovelling coal onto a fire. “There’s one thing I’d forgotten about. I don’t want to leave any gaps. Nothing anyone can use against us. And Harry and Ron won’t. So I had to—th-think of someone that would do it.”
He wanted to shake her. Out with it, silly woman, he wanted to bark, but resisted. She was circling now, trying to land, afraid and embarrassed. But why?
There was a long, hesitant silence. “I need you to take my virginity.”
Sound roared in his ears abruptly, and then utter silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. She refused to meet his eyes now.
He crossed the room in two strides, seizing her chin with one hand, tearing her upwards. His face inches from hers, he stabbed his wand at her temple, snarling, “Legilimens! ” Spittle flew from his mouth—he was incandescent with rage, nearly shaking, his grip on her face hard enough to be painful.
Her mind fell open uselessly.
Fear fear fear, running in circles, lightning fast and blanketed with pain, shrouded by a gigantic feeling of shame, shame, shame. Rejection, too, hurt and oozing, seeping through visuals like open sores. Ron, blushing, stammering, turning her down. Harry, afraid, defiant, wanting to protect her. And over and over, her mind making plans, making lists, foreseeing every possible outcome, straining to keep up with her own thoughts. He found humiliation there, ashamed she had to even ask, fear of what would happen if she didn’t, fear of what would happen if she did. Hatred of herself. Wishing she were a man, wishing she weren’t a witch, hatred of her body, of her looks, of Harry and Ron and their insistence that everything would be fine when she knew that it wouldn’t. He found her an inconsolable mess of grief, prematurely mourning everything she had given up, had sacrificed, all for her friends and for the war.
He did not find lies.
When he had finished ramming through her mind like a battering ram, he dropped her as though her skin blistered him. She stumbled backwards, thighs hitting the bed, and heaved dryly in her throat, like she wanted to vomit but nothing was left. Her hands wove through the tangled mop of her hair, squeezing her skull, doubtless gripped with a pounding headache. He had not been gentle with his examination.
Snape realised he was breathing hard. His back was against the door. It occurred to him he should just leave, Apparate away. Leave her with her grief and her pain and her anger.
Instead: “Stupid fucking girl.” Ragged. Furious. Then: “How dare you ask that of me.”
“There’s no one else,” she said, and although her voice was thick her eyes were still dry. “No one will have me.”
He snorted then, but stopped short of calling her a liar. Hermione Granger was many things, but ugly was not one of them. Plain, perhaps, but not ugly. Not like him. Any number of willing wizards her age would fall at her feet if she only knew how to ask.
But it was clear she didn’t. It was equally clear she didn’t feel she had a choice, that she was desperate, and in her desperation she turned to him.
She lifted her head miserably, hair hanging in her face. “You know what will happen,” she said, “I don’t want to be used as a weapon. I don’t want to give them any advantage. You know what can be done with virgin magic.”
He did know. He had seen it used before.
The words came out of his mouth before he could even hear them, could even check the raw hatred twisted around every word. “Dumbledore made me a murderer,” he seethed, “and now you would make me a rapist? How little do you think of me? What kind of man do you think I am?”
“It’s not—it wouldn’t be,” Hermione gulped, her eyes red, her voice high-pitched, “I’m asking. It’s not. I’m asking you to, I’m b-begging.” Her lip trembled. “Please.”
Please.
He went very still.
Please, Severus, Albus had said, those blue eyes sorrowful.
And my soul, Dumbledore?
You alone will know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation.
Why must they all ask so much of him, Severus thought, looking down at the miserable heap of Gryffindor quivering in front of him. Why did they all turn to him, in their quietest, most desperate moments, certain that he would do the right thing? Certain that he would not damage them? And they never once considered the damage their requests would inflict upon him.
But then, flickering through his mind, like a guttering candle: they both asked the impossible of him, because of their faith in his goodness. Unshakable faith, even, that he would do the right thing, and not be harmed in his service. Despite all he had done. Even now, after completing the task Dumbledore had set forth, to murder his own mentor in front of the Chosen One, there was still someone who had absolute faith in his loyalty. In his kindness.
“I cannot,” he said, and found his voice had gentled.
“Please,” she said again, and slid off the bed, dropping to her knees. Pathetic. Wringing her hands. “Please, please, you must.” Those brown eyes were shining. “I know you won’t hurt me.”
There it was.
He reached for her again, much more gently this time, and she accepted his hand. She was trembling so violently she could hardly stand. Severus wracked his brain for the words, the right words, when said in the correct order would satisfy her demands, soothe her fears, and cause her to leave.
“You’ve done well to prepare for such eventualities,” he began, trying.
“Don’t tell me it won’t happen,” she said, glaring up at him. “It might. If they get the chance, they will. They’d think of it. Someone would.”
He stopped. She was right. Of course she was—and how stupid of him to not have thought of it. How stupid of Dumbledore to not have thought of it. The old man’s idealism had blinded him, maybe, had caused him to assume that the Dark Lord’s followers wouldn’t subject a seventeen year old girl to such torture.
But Snape knew firsthand their depravity knew no limits. Even Hermione, in her panic and fearful preparation, could not fathom how cruelly they would torture her, if the Death Eaters got the chance. And she was wise to shortcut this avenue that they would undoubtedly take if given the chance.
She drew back from him, and for a moment he was seized with a thought that perhaps she had changed her mind. But instead— horror —she was unbuttoning her blouse.
“I know I’m not—I’m not—I don’t need it to be special,” Hermione stumbled through the words, struggling, fumbling with buttons, “It can be fast, I don’t care, it just needs to happen.”
Something convulsed inside of him, thrashing. The last vestiges of his soul, perhaps, rending itself in twain as he saw the soft, exposed flesh of her abdomen and breasts, half-hidden in shadow, and he couldn’t stop himself from looking.
She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, twisting her arms around to unclasp her bra. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and in an instant she stopped and grabbed her wand.
“Nox,” she whispered, and he could hear how her eyes had filled with tears. In the new darkness, more rustling of fabric. Her voice was very small, swallowed by the room. “You don’t have to look at me.”
He still hadn’t moved. It was as though he had been petrified. Something in his mind, dull and flat, reminded him that she had turned off the lights because she thought he found her too ugly to fuck. Or, a little voice rose nastily in his brain, she turned off the lights because you’re too ugly to fuck.
A hand at his groin. He stopped thinking, flinching in spite of himself. She recoiled as though he had struck her.
Then, again, more insistent.
“Don’t be stupid,” he rasped, but her little hand had already begun working at the buttons on his trousers. He caught her wrists. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the faint outline of her face, eyes glossy with tears.
Don’t make me do this hung between them.
“Please,” she whispered.
Hadn’t he sworn to protect them? To give them all the best possible chance? Wasn’t this simply eliminating another potential plan to thwart the Order’s efforts?
Ignore the window dressing. He was fucking a teenaged girl. There was no salvaging that.
She pulled away from him, hand sliding down his waist again. The touch was clumsy, earnest, pleading. She seemed to know enough that this wasn’t arousing in the slightest, that the magnitude of the situation would have shrivelled the cock of anyone less than a monster. Her fingers, cool and delicate, working carefully at buttons, popping them free one after the other. He was letting her—why was he letting her?
Because as always, he was doing the unthinkable in order to protect. In a twisted way. In a way that would hurt only him. Afterwards, they would get what they wanted, and he would be left ragged and broken once more. He was useful because of his morals, because of his willingness to die and kill for those he loved, to do anything for the greater good.
He stopped her again when he felt her graze the front of his pants. This time he was firmer, holding her arm away from him, and he knew she was about to open her mouth again, to beg and plead, to make some kind of argument or endorsement or assure him again that she wanted this.
Anger reared up in him, swiftly quelled. She didn’t want this. She needed this. There wasn’t another option and there was very little time.
He touched her, then, finding the bare skin of her midsection. Whatever words she had begun to form died in her mouth, becoming a little rush of air. Severus trailed down her ribcage, away from her breasts, finding that in the darkness she had divested herself of her denim jeans, leaving her nearly naked. He hooked a finger under the elastic of her panties, right at the hip.
“Lie back,” he heard himself saying, mechanical and dead, “On your front.”
She obeyed instantly, bending over the edge of the bed. In the darkness, he could see the mane of curls, dark against the long arch of her back. Partly curious, he stroked her skin again, finding the curve of her hip where it met the swell of her arse. Her panties were white cotton. Plain.
Unremarkable.
A beautiful young witch had to fuck him and he was in agony. Pain boiled in his chest, threatening to kill whatever meagre thread of arousal he had been cultivating. Stop, he told himself roughly. That wouldn’t do either of them any good. He could languish and hate himself later.
One long finger slid down her spine, curling around the waistband of her panties and dragging them down. She squirmed, spreading her legs obediently, immediately, as though he had barked an order. Thank Merlin for the darkness, because the effect it had on his cock was sudden. The little arch of her back, her legs spread for him, arse in the air as though she had done this a hundred times.
But she hadn’t. He tried hard to be slow, to be careful, but if he took too much time he would lose his nerve. Severus found the warm folds between her legs, half-hidden behind a thicket of soft, downy hair.
She was wet.
Surely he was mistaken, he thought, as he stroked through her, striving to find that nub of flesh near the top. But it was unmistakable; she was so soft and slippery. Merlin, but it had been ages since he had done this.
She sucked a breath in between her teeth when he found her clit, circling it gently. He was stalling, torn. Would it be cruel to make it pleasant? To draw it out? Perhaps she would hate him for it, hate her body for betraying her during such a vulnerable moment. But he didn’t want it to hurt.
If he hurt her, he might actually have to kill himself. The fact that he was doing this at all was enough to make him want to hurl himself from Ravenclaw tower.
He had to stretch her, at least a little. She felt so damnably small, it seemed impossible he would fit. Severus Snape was not gifted with a cock of unmanageable size, but he had never taken a virgin before. He remembered hearing from women that it usually hurt the first time, but it didn’t have to.
Narcissa Malfoy floated into his mind’s eye, a half-forgotten memory. Like animals , she sneered, fucking into a woman like their fist. No wonder it always hurts the first time .
He’d start with just his fingers. See if she made him stop. Half of him hoped that she would.
A little noise squeaked from the pile of hair that hid her shoulders and neck from view as he worked his index finger delicately inside her. The heat and tightness around the digit was incredible, almost vicelike; the muscles in her thighs and back were strung like piano wires.
Trying to soothe, his other hand stroked her hip, running across her flank, as he worked his finger inside her. Christ, Merlin, fuck, she was tight .
She was afraid.
He had to make this quick, then. Fuck gentleness. Over and done with. That was the best option. He added another finger ruthlessly, hearing her cry out, but then she buried her face in her forearms. Muffling her pain. Severus gritted his teeth; if she cried, he would leave. Apparate away instantly. The urge to do so was still so strong, even as he had two fingers inside her quim, thrusting shallowly. The bump of his knuckles against her clit must have counted for something, because he heard her breath coming faster. Or perhaps she was crying silently into her pillow.
“Try to relax,” he said, a stupid command, even as he saw her straining desperately to obey. She nodded, a movement almost invisible in the darkness.
Her hips arched back against him, once, instinctively, as he crooked his fingers inside her. Another little cry, then, but this one different—lower, harsher, sweeter. More a mewl than anything.
Severus freed his cock from his trousers and stroked himself harshly, willing blood into his length as though his life depended on it. Focus on the sound she had made, that little whimper of pleasure, ignore the context that threatened to crush his soul from his body. His thumb slipped to her clit, grinding small circles. She made that noise again, louder this time, huffing a breath from behind clenched teeth. The slide of his fingers quickened, and when he withdrew, she keened quietly, almost to herself.
It was time. This would have to do.
He uttered a wandless lubrication charm, just in case, wishing he had a muscle relaxing potion to give her. Anything to make this easier. The head of his cock nudged her seam, splitting the folds, and he began leaning forward, as slowly as he dared.
The little cries she had been swallowing had evaporated. Her nails were digging into her upper arms, forehead resting on the mattress. Enduring. He had come this far, he couldn’t stop now, not after all he had done. Severus settled his hands on either side of her narrow hips, trying to touch her as little as possible. His right hand was still sticky with her juices, gleaming in the darkness—a feral part of him wanted to lick it off, but he didn’t dare. This wasn’t for pleasure, this was for practicality, this was something that had to be done.
She was whimpering now, as he slid another inch inside of her. Tight, tight, tight, like getting blood from a stone. He was in as far as he dared, and withdrew lightly, only to thrust shallowly back.
The bare minimum. Just what was required. Nothing more.
The urge to fuck her hard built into a knot at the base of his spine, coiling there as his rhythm stuttered. When was the last time he had been half-buried inside a witch’s hot cunt? Years, certainly. He wanted to reach around and cup her firm little breasts, roll her nipples between his fingers, but more importantly, he wanted to bruise her hips and slam into her hard, hard enough to make her cry out.
He didn’t. The thought rampaged through his head until he closed his eyes and took a breath.
She was crying, now.
Severus willed himself to finish. Too far now. Make it count. Keep her safe, at least in this one way. Keep the war on their side. His rhythm was careful, a practised sawing back and forth like a wind-up doll, and told himself he just needed to spill himself over the edge, and it would be done. Think of something, think of anything, except the sniffling girl beneath him, who had begged him to protect her. Think of anything but his duty.
Think of anything but how much he would hate himself for this, how badly this would tear his soul apart to remember how much damage he had caused in service to the greater good.
Think of her willing. He had to, his erection already precarious—imagine her lewd, moaning, writhing, thrusting back against him. Imagine her willing, and it would be done.
He did. And then it was.
Breathing hard, he withdrew, and fell backwards as though she had shot him in the knees. She curled into herself, onto the bed, knees drawn up to her chest like a child. In the low light, he could see the dried tracks of her tears.
Hatred and self-loathing filled him, expanding into his chest, and he had to leave.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice gone, and it broke him.
He left, slamming the door, robes whirling around him. Whatever was left of his stomach was soon retched and left in the gutter.
She did not see him again for nearly six months.
The memory of Severus Snape taking her virginity had been buried in the terror and grayness of war and starvation and survival, the pressing matters of life and death blotting out the particulars of their encounter. Even in the days that followed immediately after meeting Snape, she found herself preoccupied with other plans, other books she needed to find, other maps she needed to recreate, other spells she needed to practise.
And yet, at night, when she lay on a thin cot and heard the hooting of owls outside, she thought of him. Not as he had been, pained and harsh during their short and untimely coupling, but through a gauze of dreamlike fantasy. He had been gentle with her, as gentle as he was capable of being under the circumstances, she imagined. And in the entrenched misery of surviving war, her anxieties heightened by the presence of the locket, she found herself retreating into this dreamy world. A world where Severus had laid with her, stroking her hair perhaps, running a finger down the length of her side, touching her everywhere carefully and mindlessly.
She could not possibly repay him for what he had done. Couldn’t even begin to imagine how to thank someone for doing something that they clearly found so awful. In her dreams, she imagined that he had not been writhing with loathing and full of rage at the very thought of touching her skinny, unremarkable body; he was attentive and thorough and kind, at least in the fantasies that played in her head.
At this point, months into the war, learning of atrocities being committed by means of short radio segments, the details of their encounter had blurred more into fiction than reality. It was the only bit of happiness she could muster reliably: a thought of Severus Snape, gentle with her in the darkness.
Ron once asked her if she still wanted to “do it.” He’d looked so lonely and miserable that she almost said yes, nearly told him that she still wanted to, but she thought of Snape and his fingers against her ribcage and said no automatically.
Ron had looked away, flushing.
She spent so often thinking of him that she was therefore not entirely unsurprised to see him one morning, stealthily checking their wards, bundled in winter robes against the raw predawn chill.
It was her turn for watch, and she stayed very still, wondering if he saw her. Likely he did, but assumed she was asleep. In his defence, she had been, at least a little. But when she moved, he stopped short. Frozen. Like she had called his name.
“Professor?” she said, her voice very soft, muffled by the snow around them. She got to her feet.
He turned as if to Apparate.
“No, wait!” she called, louder than she dared, and dashed forward.
As she drew closer, Hermione could see the obvious horror in his eyes, enormous fear and shock gaping within him. When she was a half-dozen paces away, she stopped, breathing hard.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said, meaning it. The words tumbled out of her in a rush. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”
It had occurred to her only later what studious work Severus would have to do, repressing the memory of him inside of her, so that the Dark Lord would not see the details of their encounter. Wouldn’t know she had stolen a potential strategy from him. It must have been torture for him to relive it.
He said nothing, and Hermione realised he didn’t need to, because the words were coming out of her before she could stop them. “I want to thank you,” she said, her voice hushed, “for everything. All you’ve done. For me—for all of us.”
With a sudden jerk, his wand was levelled at her face.
“Fourth year, Pepper-Up potions,” he said raggedly, “your essay was how many words?”
She shrank back a little, hurt, understanding. “I don’t know,” she confessed, “I only know that you asked for twelve inches of parchment and I gave you fifteen, and you cut off the bottom three inches and graded what was left.”
His wand lowered.
Hermione looked away, feeling tears threaten. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I should have realised you—you wouldn’t want to see me. I only wanted to say thank you.”
The look on his face was something close to being appalled. When he spoke, his voice was rusty from anger. “ Thank me?” he managed.
“For—well, you know,” she said, looking at the snow on her boots. “I don’t know if I’ll get another opportunity.”
That was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? This might be the last time she ever saw Severus Snape. War was not kind to women or spies, and the chances of them both surviving to see the end of it was slim. She looked at him, a stark black figure against a canvas of snow and pines, his breath pluming in front of him.
“Don’t thank me,” Severus said, low, torn, “not for that. Not ever.”
She was affronted, then offended, in rapid succession. “For protecting me?” Hermione said, her voice close to a snap, “For doing as I asked? Even though you’d rather have died than touch me? For doing something that no one else in my life had the courage to do, even when I begged them?” Tears pricked again but she threw her head back, forcing them away. “You have to live with what I made you do, and for that I’m sorry, but you don’t get to decide how I feel about it. And I feel grateful. And glad.”
A toss of her curls. Defiant. The anger in her was warming, making her feel alive, her atrophied heart beating for the first time in what felt like years.
“Glad?” he sneered. “ Grateful?”
“Yes,” she said, and curled her lip, a passable imitation of the man in front of her.
Something flickered on Snape’s typically inscrutable features. The rawness startled her. “Silly girl,” he whispered, the words a rush of air.
“Yes,” she agreed, now feeling stupid. She looked away. Silence stretched between them, heavy and unsettling. Her anger was gone, like a puff of wind. “I am sorry,” she tried again. “But I am also glad.”
“You should hate me,” he told her, but there was little acid in his tone. It sounded rather as though he were talking to himself.
She sniffed. “Well, I don’t,” Hermione closed the distance between them, marching determinedly until she was up under his nose, on her tiptoes. He backed away from her instinctively, but she pressed on. “Tell me what’s going on at Hogwarts. Quickly, before the boys wake up—I don’t want to explain anything to them.”
He was obviously unsettled by her proximity. “I am attempting to keep the Carrows in check,” he said, “The Weasley girl is determined to get herself killed. They’ve formed a little uprising. I am doing my best to keep them all alive.”
Hermione glowed at the thought of Ginny Weasley leading a ragtag group of Gryffindors, fighting against the Death Eaters who no doubt ruled the school with an iron fist. It distracted her from his closeness until he spoke, and then her eyes darted back to his. In the cool morning light that was beginning to steal over the pines, she could see that his obsidian eyes were in fact, the deepest chocolate brown she had ever seen.
“Did you…” He gestured at the tent, where Harry and Ron were sleeping the way only young boys could sleep, hard and dreamless. “...tell them?”
“About…?” She queried. He nodded. “No,” Hermione shrugged. “I told them it was settled. They didn’t ask.” She looked up at him again, and her gaze flicked between those beautiful eyes and his narrow mouth. “I haven’t told anyone.”
He nodded tersely. “Good.”
She could sense he was about to leave, that this was her last moment, perhaps the last time she would ever see Severus Snape alive, and impulsively kissed him low on his cheek, nearly on the corner of his mouth. He reeled back as though she had slapped him across the face.
“Thank you, again,” she said, and then left him in the snow, stock-still, gawping like a schoolboy.
Later, as Hermione dazedly watched Bellatrix carve into her arm, she remembered that kiss. Funny what the brain reflects on as it dies, she thought, head lolling back. From the shadows, Fenrir’s teeth gleamed, filthy and sharp.
Another Crucio. She was screaming herself hoarse, her throat frayed and bloody. The sounds she was making no longer seemed human.
A knee was forced between her thighs, and Hermione was momentarily distracted until Bellatrix started on a new letter in her forearm.
“Are you a virgin, little girl?” Bellatrix crooned, stabbing her arm particularly viciously on the B. “Did one of those nasty boys worm his way into your filthy little cunt?”
Hermione smiled then, blood filling all the gaps of her teeth, as pain throbbed through every part of her.
Bellatrix stabbed hard, through her arm, nicking bone, the tip of the blade sinking into the floor beneath. “Answer me!”
Hermione laughed, truly, fully, until she lost consciousness. She laughed so loudly it drowned out Bellatrix’s enraged screaming, laughed until everything went black, and spat at Bellatrix just before darkness took her.
Later still, as Hermione sat bundled on the beach at Shell Cottage, she relished in vague triumph.
She had survived Bellatrix. She had done what she intended—stolen a potential weapon from them, something they would have— did think of. And it was gone, so she was useless, and they would have killed her. That was fine. So long as her death didn’t tip the scales of the war against them.
Dobby’s grave, mournful and a scar of fresh earth against the scrubby grass, caught her eye. She expected to feel something, but there was nothing left. Just a hard kernel in her belly. Victory. She had won.
It occurred to her only later that evening, when Fleur peeled her away from the rocks and guided her inside, that it might have been better if she had died in Malfoy Manor. Perhaps then she could have been truly useful, served as some kind of a martyr to Ron and Harry, something to galvanise them towards victory.
Numb and dead, she sat in the kitchen where Fleur had put her, unmoving. She thought again of the kiss she nearly stole from Severus Snape and wished she had.
Her one regret. The thought made her laugh, startling everyone.
Against all odds, despite all efforts, and purely by luck, they both survived the war.
The first thing Severus Snape saw when he regained proper consciousness in St. Mungo’s was Hermione’s tawny brown eyes, bright and sparkling with tears. He remembered her voice here and there, flashes of her sitting at his bed, stroking his hand, holding him down as he thrashed. Not much else remained. He prodded his mind gingerly, as a tongue might root around a rotten tooth, and found his mental wards in tatters. Memories were gone, either stolen or repressed, and how he had gotten here in St. Mungo’s, he could not even begin to guess. What was the last thing he remembered?
Hermione’s curly hair in the snow, affection and impudence writ on her face as she pulled away. Her lips against his cheek. Breath tickling his ear.
But something must have happened after that; Severus flipped through his memories, growing more frantic. What had happened? What of the war? Hermione wouldn’t dare be sitting next to him in St. Mungo’s unless—
Unless—
“Don’t try to talk just yet,” Hermione said softly, noticing his distress, “just lie back and relax. You’re safe. Nothing’s wrong. The war’s over.”
The war was over?
He remembered flashing silver fangs, then. Blood. Green eyes. The sound his body made as it crumpled to the floor, Nagini twisted around him.
Ah. The sudden realisation filled him with relief. He was dead, then. Fine. Suits him well. Whatever afterlife he was in, this seemed remarkably tame, and his throat hurt terribly. Was there supposed to be pain in the afterlife? Hermione slid her fingers through his, linking them together.
“Just rest,” she told him, and he obeyed her as though she were a siren.
Gaining and keeping consciousness over the next several weeks proved difficult. Potions were tipped down his ruined throat nearly every hour of the day, and when he could reasonably be expected to sit up and stay awake for longer than a few minutes, he immediately demanded a quill and some parchment so he could communicate to those around him. His wand was notably missing.
The term visiting seemed too temporary for Hermione’s presence, as she seemed to be around him every time he opened his eyes. Little hints of her residency were littered around his solitary hospital room—a sliding cot instead of a couch. Personal letters piled at the windowsill. A stack of books, dog-eared and annotated. Owl treats left scattered at his bedside. Surely she must have left at certain points to go home, shower, eat, do whatever was required of a war hero when the war had been won. Not sitting around his bed as though he were liable to die at any moment.
How long has the war been over? He scribbled on the parchment.
She answered the unwritten question he had hidden in his writing. “You’ve been in St. Mungo’s for about…five months,” Hermione answered. “Nearly six. It was very touch and go at first. Lots of people said you wouldn’t make it.”
How did it end?
“A battle,” she said, looking away. “At Hogwarts. People—people died. Even Harry did, for about twenty minutes.”
She told him the whole story, how Harry had died to save them all, resurrected by some unknown force of love and magic and bits of soul and whatever else. He was scarcely paying attention, still reeling from the fact that he wasn’t dreaming, he wasn’t dead, and the war was over. The thing that had shaped his entire life, given him purpose, direction—over. His mission had failed. He was still alive. Still here to live and stew and fester in the consequences of his own actions, forced to survive and remember all he had done in order for the war to be won.
Although he had prepared exhaustively his whole life for it, he had never once considered a plan for if he survived. That was always out of the question.
“You got awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class,” Hermione told him, as though she could read his mind. Perhaps she could—he had done absolutely no maintenance work on his mental guards. “Any criminal actions you took during the war have been expunged. There’s even talk of putting a statue of you on Hogwarts grounds.”
He snorted at that, regretting it instantly, as the tiny motion sent shocks of pain down his neck. She laughed at him and brushed some hair out of his eyes. A familiar, loving gesture. Like she was his wife, or perhaps a dear friend.
Why was she touching him? Why was she here at all? The one person alive who had borne the brunt of his worst actions, and she was sitting next to him, smiling at him like he had hung the moon.
“Lots of people have come to see you,” Hermione reported, “McGonagall. Harry, of course. Even Draco. There’s piles of gifts and letters—they had to get moved to their own room, there’s so many.”
He ignored her, writing instead, Why are you here?
She ignored him, saying instead, “The Healers said you’ll likely be in here for another month or so at least. And then lots of rehabilitation visits. Lots more potions, and charms, and even then, you might have to take some antidotes for the rest of your life.” She lowered her gaze, looking at their intertwined hands. She held his hand frequently now, and he did nothing to extract himself. He had no idea why.
Severus tapped the parchment.
Hermione looked at him again, sombre and doe-eyed. “Where else would I go?”
Severus Snape walked out of St. Mungo’s three weeks later, a scarf covering the red, puckered scar tissue on his throat, and used his newly reacquired wand to Apparate away from the wretched place. The smell of healing potions and sick people vanished from his nostrils, filled instead with the distinct scent of wisteria. He stood on the sidewalk, staring at Spinner’s End, the ramshackle, dour little house he had grown up in.
Someone had spent a great deal of time and energy to repaint it, to fix the sagging, crooked porch and plant boughs of wisteria and morning glories across the bannisters, twisting their way through the gaps. The little patch of grass that served as a front lawn was brilliantly green and groomed. Against the pallid greyness of the surrounding houses, his home seemed almost…quaint.
The inside had been tidied, and as soon as he saw the bookshelves he knew it had been Hermione. Nobody else would have bothered organising and reshelving all of the books he had left akimbo by his hurried, untimely departure from this place. The little postage stamp of a kitchen was scrubbed spotless, by either very precise magic or the elbow grease of a determined witch.
Sitting on the little kitchen table, so small it only had room for two stools, was a scrap of parchment, sealed with a spot of red wax but no seal.
The memory it brought back seemed so long ago. Over a year ago at this point, but it could have been a decade for all that had passed. He broke it with his thumb, unfurling the blank parchment, and an otter swam around him in circles, flipping gracefully.
“What did I say, immediately after you helped me last year?” the otter asked in Hermione’s voice, twining around his shoulders.
He remembered her, small and contorted, lying on the bed with her knees against her chest. Tear tracks drying on her cheeks. Her hair spilling around her. The words came out automatically, his voice still husky from disuse. “‘Thank you.’”
Words bloomed on the page.
Dear Severus,
I hope I didn’t overstep. Please forgive me. I only wanted your house to be nice when you came home. Draco helped, but if you’re angry, it’s my fault.
-H
A warm, peculiar feeling stole over him, starting at his shoulders and dripping down his upper arms. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered to think what it would be like coming home to the cramped, spidery house, least of all himself. Free of cobwebs, with a fresh coat of white paint, it seemed nearly like a cottage. Something better than the tilted, sloping house that still echoed with his father’s shouts.
He folded her letter and put it in his pocket, and then put the kettle on.
The idea of going on a date was so patently alien to her that Hermione almost didn’t go. One, she had never officially been on a date, and two, how was she supposed to behave after all that she had been through? It had surprised her to no end that Cormac McLaggen had asked her out, suitably chagrined from his time at school and looking earnestly handsome with a brand new scar on his cheek from the war—but what surprised her even more was that she accepted.
Hermione looked at herself in the mirror and pulled her sleeves a little lower. The ugly scar Bellatrix had left on her arm was hidden beneath her sleeve and a Glamour charm; exposing the bare skin would mean revealing the deep, purple-red welt of a scar that puffed up against her skin, stark and obvious to anyone who bothered to look. In time, she hoped it would fade to a silvery grey, or at least a soft pink, rather than the bruise-colored tissue it was currently.
Her brown-and-gold hair, curls a bramble, had been pulled back with a number of barrettes and charms, and she hoped that would hold. There was a smudge of lipstick on her mouth. It made her red lips look like a gash in her pallid face.
After all that time scrimping and starving in the woods, she hadn’t gotten back into the habit of eating properly. Especially after all her time at St. Mungo’s—it turned out muggle hospital food was about on par with wizarding hospitals. She looked scrawny. Underfed. Her white button-down blouse hung limply down her front, small breasts barely peaking the fabric.
This was a terrible idea. She should firecall Cormac and cancel.
She didn’t.
Perhaps in the greatest display of cowardice Hermione had ever performed, she simply didn’t go on the date, and Apparated instead to Spinner’s End.
He should have guessed that she’d turn up at his door one day, pleading and pathetic once more, but he didn’t anticipate her looking so beautiful.
Hermione Granger stood awkwardly on his front step, wearing Muggle clothes with her riot of curls pulled away from her face, a blush of lipstick— lipstick —on her mouth. Framed by the porch light and surrounded by a handful of dusty, twaddling moths, she looked golden and luminous. Everything about her was warm-colored.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically. Apologising seemed to be the only thing she was good for. “I just—wanted to say hello.”
“Hello,” he said dryly, his voice still hoarse from Nagini, but much smoother than it had been the last time she saw him several months ago. She fidgeted with the buttons on her sleeve. After a beat of awkward silence, he stepped away from the door, gesturing her inside.
It was odd to see her in his foyer, out of place and brilliant even in shadow. He flicked his wand to turn the lamps on. Not to see her better. Just because it was dark. No other reason.
“Do you—” Hermione started, then stopped. She blushed. “Could I get a cup of tea, do you think?”
How unimaginably rude, Severus thought to himself even as he put the kettle on. Inviting herself inside, asking for a cup of tea presumptuously. Impertinent brat. But seeing her again brought him a small shard of comfort; he had apparently grown accustomed to her presence while at St. Mungo’s.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” Hermione spoke to the silence, sitting down at one of his little kitchen stools. “I—I had other plans, but I was—I didn’t want to go.”
“And so you came here,” Severus said, voice low and raspy, “in order to occupy your time?”
He was probing her. Why turn up here, dressed like that, with lipstick and long hair and dark lashes? What little game was she playing this time? She must want something. Surely she could not ask him for yet another favour. The last one had nearly killed them both.
Or it had kept them alive. Either was abhorrent.
She met his gaze as he sat down opposite her. “I had a date,” she said, the words sounding foreign in her mouth. “Cormac McClaggan.”
He snorted. The barest hint of a laugh. She broke out into a smile then, as though he had given her permission. “I know, he’s an idiot. I just—he asked. I didn’t know what else to say.”
“Say no,” he pointed out. “That is always an option.”
She looked down. “Not really.”
Context, history, and memories lay on the table between them, heavy enough to creak the wood. Neither spoke for a long moment, not until the kettle began to bobble on the stove, steam gushing into a broken whistle. He could feel her eyes on him when he rose to fetch mugs and tea bags, pouring hot water. Her gaze was sharp and miserable. Apologetic. Wounded.
“I meant to leave you alone,” Hermione told him when he sat back down. “After St. Mungo’s, I mean. Harry said I was being obsessive.”
She had been obsessive—she had practically lived next to his bed.
“And yet here you are,” he said, his mouth twisting.
There was something she wanted to say. Circling again. But silently this time. She had learned to keep her motormouth under control, at least a fraction more than previously. “I just want you to know that—” she stopped, and took a sip of her tea.
He said nothing, wrapping one of his hands around his mug, feeling the warmth bleed into his palm.
“It wasn’t for nothing,” Hermione said at last, looking at her short fingernails. The skin around her nails was red, irritated from picking and tearing. “What you did for me. They thought of it.”
Horror bolted through him instantly, cold as ice, filling his veins.
“They didn’t—I wasn’t—they couldn’t, obviously,” she added hastily, “I mean, they were going to. Fenrir was, I think. But Bellatrix thought of it. When we were at Malfoy Manor. But—she couldn’t.” Those golden-brown eyes flicked upwards, meeting his once more. “Just in case you thought…I mean—just so you know it wasn’t in vain.”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Low in his belly, a tight knot which had existed since his interaction with Hermione last year loosened slightly. She was still meeting his gaze steadfastly, her expression placid, as though her fumbling explanation was everything he needed.
“I know you still feel guilty,” Hermione told him quietly, “and I don’t think you should. You did what you had to do.”
“I have nothing but guilt for the things I have had to do,” Severus replied, just as quiet.
“I know,” she said. “Me too.”
They sat together, holding mugs of tea, drifting into a companionable silence. It stretched so long that Hermione jumped, startled, when he stood to retrieve a bottle of firewhiskey from the top of his cupboard, which he poured a generous finger of into his tea.
He extended the bottle to her. A blush skirted her cheeks, and she accepted, adding it to her tea.
“I thought about you,” she said, taking a sip of the now disgusting tea. “When we were travelling.” The taste of firewhiskey was enough to bolster her courage, if only a little. “Trying to think of some way to pay you back for all you’ve done for me.”
Severus wanted to bite back that typically, women offering their bodies in a moment of terror and desperation did not warrant gratitude, but thought better of it. “You played nursemaid for the better part of a year,” he grumbled, drinking his spiked tea. The heat soothed his raw throat. “I imagine our chequebook is balanced.”
She dragged one finger around the rim of her mug, thinking, pondering, weighing. “If I had gone about it differently, would you have said yes?” she asked finally. “If I had…I don’t know. Dressed up and threw myself at you.”
Ah.
That’s what this was.
“No,” he answered truthfully. “I would not have.”
“Even if I begged?” she asked. Her gaze was dark.
Something stirred in his chest. “Even then.”
“Mm,” She made a little noise of chagrin, or expectation, or something between the two. “That’s why I didn’t go out with McLaggen,” she continued. “Well, one of the reasons. I think I’m just…not the sort of girl that men like.”
It was so familiar. He had come to the same conclusion when he was about her age—resigned and angry, hiding disappointment beneath an air of flippancy. “You would be wrong,” he said shortly, knowing this was rapidly becoming dangerous territory. She had a furtive air about her, creeping towards the edges, warily skirting a larger subject.
“Let’s think of all the men I’ve had lining up,” Hermione said, pretending to think. “Ron. And…now Cormac. How will I remember such a list?”
“You had half of the boys in your year following you around, you simply failed to notice,” Severus said frostily. “Hardly their fault you were preoccupied with books.”
“They should have tried to be more interesting than the books, then,” she grumbled into her tea. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, so fast she might have blinked and missed it. More seriously, then: “What about now? If I tried now, what would you say?”
He grew very still. “If you tried what now, Miss Granger?”
“If I tried—” she struggled, tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. “If I tried now. Asked you now. Would you do it?”
“Say it,” he said slowly, his grip tightening on his mug. “Say aloud what you’re asking of me.”
Her eyelids fluttered as though she wanted to blink, to break their all-too-intimate eye contact, but she didn’t. “Would you fuck me now, if I asked? Right now?”
Severus tilted his head just slightly to one side, pinning her against the wall with the intensity of his gaze. “What are you trying, Miss Granger,” he growled, low, hurt. “If you are looking for a boost to your self-esteem, I suggest you seek elsewhere. I am not in the habit of bolstering young women when they are disappointed with their looks.”
“I don’t care if you think I’m beautiful,” she shot back, her voice soft and dangerous and quick. “I didn’t ask that. I asked if you’d fuck me. I think I’d—I think I’d like to try. With you. And see what it’s like.”
“I believe you’ve experienced that once already,” he sneered, aiming to wound, “or was our union not to your liking?”
“It was, actually,” she replied, and that was true, wasn’t it? If she had allowed herself a moment to think, if she had let her formidable brain analyse the encounter beyond superficial recollection, yes , she would have found it to her liking. She liked his gentle hands and his careful nature, she liked his fingers inside of her, and most importantly she liked that hard clench of feeling deep in her belly, the burgeoning of…something. Something she didn’t know.
Certainly it had been enough to keep her going all through the war. Enough to keep her coming back. Enough to sit at his bedside for months, reading aloud to him until her throat sounded as hoarse as his. Enough to come back now, wearing lipstick and a blouse and uncomfortable shoes, to try again.
Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back.
“I am not so easily flattered,” he spat.
She reached across the table then, touching him. He flinched like she had burned him. “You haven’t said no.” Mocking him, now. “That’s always an option.”
Severus could not find words, could not even begin to fathom what his life had turned into. Surely he must have died in the war, because the surreality around him was not of this world. Hermione Granger, member of the Golden Trio, brightest witch of her year, was propositioning him. Him—the greasy, batlike Potions master. And why? Why now? Why at all? When she initially sought him out, that had least made some sense, but now , with the looming pressure of the war gone, with nothing but freedom before her, she returned to him and his dark little cottage at the end of a dingy street.
And there was still part of him that wanted her to hate him. Wanted her hatred to be his punishment for what he had done. All of the people he hurt were so wretchedly forgiving, endless fountains of empathy and understanding. Just once, he’d like someone to seek revenge on him, to torture him for a just reason. That perhaps would soothe the endless itch of scab and infection in his heart.
“Get out,” he said, his voice cracking. “Before you do something you come to regret.”
She rose, witness to his inner turmoil, and kissed his temple. It was such a forgiving gesture, hardly romantic, something a friend might do to someone they loved. Or, the thought very far and untethered in his mind, something he imagined friends might do to someone they loved. Certainly he had never had such a friendship.
Her fingers carded through his hair tenderly. “I should have kissed you,” she whispered in his ear, “back when I saw you in the Forest of Dean. That’s what I regret.”
No one had ever regretted not kissing him.
The urge to kiss her was suddenly very strong. Just a kiss. Stolen from her. Something to remember.
Turning, rising, grasping, he seized her face with both hands, a gesture so familiar to their first encounter when he ripped through her mind that she nearly recoiled. But then he was kissing her, kissing her, and she melted against him, knees going boneless, and she knitted her arms around his neck. He tasted like a hint of strong tea and firewhiskey, and when she slanted her mouth against his a groan was torn from his ruined throat.
Severus buried his hands in her tumultuous curls and captured her full lower lip once, twice, three times, before breaking off and resting his forehead against hers. His breath came fast, heart hammering against his ribs, marvelling at his own stupidity and how sweet she tasted. How pathetic he was, coaxed into a kiss by a girl simply because she desired him, wanted him to, asked him nicely.
But then, who could place blame upon him, upon Severus Snape, the man no one had ever completely loved or desired? He was a man to be used , not loved, and for the first time someone was asking something of him that he wanted to give. Others had thought him good, but only Hermione thought him kind.
She was delirious, and smiled in spite of herself. So close to him it was blinding. “That,” she said softly, and he felt her words as much as heard them, he was so close, “that’s what I wanted.”
He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, gentle as ever. “Why?”
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him again, more chastely this time, more softly, enjoying the novelty. “Because I wanted to,” she told him, half-teasing, “and because you—you felt right. Familiar. I know I’m not what you might like, but—”
Severus kissed her, shutting her up, slipping a hand around her waist and drawing her further into him, impossibly close. “Stop,” he ordered, voice like gravel, “Enough.”
How did she feel so drunk? She’d had maybe three sips of firewhiskey, but his presence and kisses were intoxicating. “I’m not,” she told him, “you don’t have to lie. I don’t want you to lie. You don’t even have to like me, I just want—” She kissed him, hungry, forceful, wanting, “—just want you.”
He pulled away, stopping her, controlling himself. The task seemed impossible when his arms were full of her, yearning and willing. “You should want more,” he told her. Someone who loved her. Weasley, or even boorish McLaggen. She should want more because she deserved more, she didn’t deserve a lecherous old man who was even now thinking of potions ingredients to will away his throbbing erection.
“I don’t want more,” she said simply, “Just you.”
He wondered if she had always wanted him, if she had been nursing a crush since he was her teacher, but that seemed unlikely. This was new. Something she developed and nursed while fleeing for her life, on an impossible mission to find Horcruxes. A little fantasy she retreated into when all else seemed bleak.
Did that make him more or less selfish, he began to wonder, but then stopped because she was unbuttoning her blouse once more; they seemed to be mirroring their dance from a year ago, but without the thorns of desperation and fear, filled instead with little sparks of desire and uncertainty. Apprehension mixed with longing.
She slid the blouse off her shoulders and let it pool at her feet, standing in his kitchen in a bra and denims. Her breasts were caged in a tight pink bra, a hint of cleavage visible despite the protective frame. Her abdomen looked so soft, the skin there untouched and paler than the bronze on her forearms and cheeks. There was a shimmer on her forearm that caught his eye, the telltale ripple of a Glamour concealer. Used sparingly under the eyes or around the mouth it was hardly noticeable, but covering such a wide swath was bound to draw attention.
Noticing his gaze, she reached for her wand, and tapped it against her arm. “Pulchritudo,” she whispered, and it vanished.
The effect was drastic.
Bellatrix had certainly enjoyed her torture of Hermione, that much was clear. The delighted spasms of her knife left deep purple scars, rippling at the edges, so deep that surely Hermione must have been held down or bound in some way. No one would have sat still for that long. The line of the B was particularly deep, punctuated by a stab wound near the bottom, one that went all the way through to the opposite side of her arm.
MUDBLOOD
Imprinted on her skin, forever. Permanently marked.
She turned her wrist away so he wouldn’t look at it anymore. “I know it’s ugly,” she whispered. “She would have done more, if we hadn’t—if Dobby hadn’t saved us.”
Wordlessly, he captured her hand with his, drawing her arm up to examine it. Up close it was even more disgusting—although the Healers had undoubtedly done all they could, there was no healing wounds from Bellatrix’s knife, not completely, at any rate. It had been months and the skin still looked raw and agitated. He brushed one finger down the raised flesh, feeling her shudder in pain as he did so. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip.
“You could have died,” he told her, very low.
“I wanted to,” she said honestly. “I thought afterwards that maybe it would be better…you know. If I had.” She tugged her arm away from him. “Don’t look at it.”
“You should grow accustomed to people looking at it,” Severus said, still very close to her, and she wasn’t wearing a shirt—she could feel the heat from his body. “The Glamour won’t last forever.”
“It’ll last until it’s nicer to look at,”Hermione said somewhat petulantly, “I don’t need any more things making me ugly.”
He wanted to ask who had convinced her so thoroughly that she was ugly, when the woman standing before him was clearly anything but. She was beautiful in a simple way, understated, the kind of beauty you cherished before others took notice. The kind of beauty that grew stronger the more you looked. And perhaps that was the tragedy—had anyone ever really looked? Stopped to notice the flecks of gold in her eyes, the tilt of her rosy mouth, the swell of her hips? She was the kind of woman that stupid boys fell hopelessly in love with, once they bothered to notice her.
Severus did not consider himself a stupid boy. And yet—
She kissed him again, fingers moving to unsnap the buttons on her jeans, and he stopped her, slowing her hands. Seeing the visible effects of the war on her young, lithe body was sobering. “This shouldn’t happen,” he said, mustering up his wavering conviction, gathering the edges of his strength, “you ought to leave.”
“I’m not leaving now ,” Hermione said, and unclasped her bra. “Not when you’re looking at me like that.”
Perhaps he was a stupid boy, Severus thought to himself, looking at her small, perfect breasts. He wanted to weigh them in each hand, span the breadth of them, taste them, run his tongue over the delectable curve on each side. He settled a hand against her hip, and she immediately corrected him, pulling him higher, up against her ribs.
“Please,” she said, so reminiscent of their first time, “I want to. Just…show me. Touch me. Like last time.”
Like last time.
Except not at all, because he wanted to forget every moment of last time . Wanted to erase it entirely, replace it with a different memory instead. And perhaps he was a stupid boy, because maybe they could—maybe they could forget the first time ever happened, pretend as though Hermione had sought him out after the war, seeking connection and care and a good, solid fuck that drove out whatever demons lingered in her mind. Maybe they could pretend he was able to give her what she wanted.
Maybe they could both pretend. For an hour or two.
Slowly, agonisingly, he found the button at the top of her jeans, and flicked it open. Already she was unbuttoning his black shirt, nimble little fingers so close to his chest. It hardly occurred to him that he was an unflattering specimen, not even when she had shrugged his shirt open and smoothed her hands down his chest and through the dark, sparse hair there; it didn’t occur to him hardly at all, because there was a tiny little bow on her white cotton underwear, and when he snagged the elastic she let out a hot breath against his ear.
Experimentally she ran her nails lightly down his sides, feeling the lean muscle there contract. He had always been a thin man, lean and angular, but she was looking at him with dark, hungry eyes, like she wanted nothing else. Severus let his shirt fall open and off, joining hers on the floor, and she was already working at the buckle of his trousers.
Some things were not improved by magic, he thought, swallowing hard as he dragged her panties down and off. Seeing tantalising inches of skin reveal itself slowly, bit by bit, was much more preferable to a sudden divestment of Vanished clothes.
He stopped thinking when she kissed him hard, tongue in his mouth, and wrapped one slender leg around his hips, arms twisting around his neck. He could feel her heat against his leg through his trousers, hot and aching and wanting.
Practicalities: where to go?
Without thinking, he swept her up, depositing her on the kitchen table, and she squeaked with alarm. He wanted her spread out in front of him, wanted to map every inch of her soft bronzed skin, feel the slide of her against him; but most importantly, he wanted to look at her. Something he had denied himself in the darkness of their last coupling.
Those black eyes roved over her body, hands skimming against her skin, marvelling at the softness and warmth. Like she was a delicate, intricate thing. A puzzle to be unravelled. Her wild, bushy curls were beginning to come undone around her shoulders, and he lowered his head to her breasts, pressing a kiss on the full lower curve, just beneath her rose-colored nipple.
She bit her lip again, trying not to be loud, not to startle him, as though if she cried out he would leave again. Leave her like he had last time, alone and feeling empty in a strange bed.
But this wasn’t like last time, she reminded herself, hissing in pleasure as he drew a nipple between his teeth experimentally. Suckling lightly. The sensation was entirely new, something she couldn’t do to herself, and it caused something deep within her to clench. His fingers stroked the outside of her thigh, and hesitantly wandered between them, dipping a finger between her creamy folds.
Just that hint of pressure caused her to squirm. “Fuck,” she ground out, teeth clenched.
He stared at her, an unreadable emotion flickering on his face. Awe? Severus dragged one finger through her quim, and then brought it to his lips. Her mouth fell open as he openly tasted her, sucking the juices from his hand.
And then he dropped to his knees at the holiest of altars, hiking one leg over his shoulder and letting the other fall apart as he bowed his head.
The first swipe of his tongue against her slit was searingly hot, and it became incredibly apparent that what he wanted was the taste of her, more of her, against his tongue and lips and teeth, as much of her as he could get. She moaned, loud and lewd, unable to stop herself—the sensation was almost too much, and her leg tried to close, trying to squeeze instinctively around his head, but his hand shot out and pinned her down, his grip like steel.
That was when the real torture began—he slowed down, pacing himself as though she were a sumptuous feast. The grind of his tongue against her clit, dextrous and rhythmic, was going to drive her mad; it was unlike anything she had ever felt, wet and ferocious and unending, like she could die and he wouldn’t stop. Something was building fast within her, and she tried to be still but it was impossible with him holding her so tightly, one hand digging into the flesh of her thigh.
“Please!” she sobbed, throwing her head back. Something entered her, one of his fingers most likely, something for her to clench around, and she keened brokenly as that added to the rhythm, maddening and slow. She needed it faster, deeper, more, and maybe those words tumbled out of her mouth, she had no way of controlling her brain any longer.
Severus was tenacious in his ministrations, never letting up, stopping only to nibble—lightly, so lightly—at the swollen nub of flesh at the top of her slit. That was nearly what broke her, and then he added a second finger, feeling the pure heat of her against his palm, cupped in his hand. What sent her over the edge was looking down at him, and his black eyes flicked upwards to meet hers.
Unadulterated lust was rolling off him, brow low and heavy as his tongue worked against her, deliberate and languid. He tore a ragged moan from her, and she fell back, arching upwards as the muscles in her legs went taut. She was vaguely aware of how hard she was clenching around his fingers, but she was powerless to stop it.
He slowed even further, and then finally stopped, listening to her panting. Her legs were trembling. He had never seen a witch do that before, and wondered if that was something purely Hermione.
“Easy now,” he told her, or perhaps crooned, his fingers drawing away from the hot slickness of her.
Hermione was, for the first time in her life, incapable of forming a single thought. The lightning switchboard of her brain had been replaced with sweet fog, hazy pleasure. She looked up at him and nearly came undone once more at the sight of him licking his fingers clean, savouring.
There was one thought still there, half-hidden in fog but stronger than ever. She hooked one leg around his waist and drew him closer, against the sopping mess he had left her cunt. “I want you to fuck me,” she told him, nearly snarling, “Please.”
He dropped on top of her against the table, bracing his arms on either side of her head. “Say it again,” he snarled, face so close to hers she could feel his breath mingling with hers.
“Please, Severus, I want you to fuck me,” she breathed, and he kissed her hard, tongue insistent in her mouth, and she moaned openly, twining arms around him.
Later, she wanted to explore, to examine the topography of his lean body, but now she wanted him inside her. This was what all of her classmates had been seeking, she realised stupidly, this feeling, the unassaugable yearning at the lowest part of her belly. Desire. Satisfaction. Whatever the word for it was, she knew it now, and wanted more.
Her nails dug into the line of his shoulder, and she heard him fumbling. She felt his cock at her entrance, and she lifted her hips encouragingly, as though she had done this with him thousands of time, helping him line up his first thrust. It would be different than last time, she told herself. Better. Not tight and painful and burning.
This didn’t hurt at all, in fact, just stretched —she looked down, trying to see how her labia split in half, what it looked like with a cock buried deep inside of her. It was much, much larger than she expected, and the unstoppable pressure in her was building again, just a hint of pain skirting at the edges. Enough to keep her grounded. Hermione widened her legs, letting her thighs spread for more of him, and he groaned for the first time, unable to help himself at the sight of her so wanton.
When he was buried to the hilt inside of her, he stopped, and dropped his head onto her shoulder. She kissed every part of him she could reach, peppering little kisses against his ear, the scars on his neck, his shoulder, the rasp of a beard beginning on his jawline.
“So good,” she tried, words failing her, “Please, don’t stop, it feels so good.”
This is what it should have been, he thought, trying very hard not to lose himself inside of her already. Her begging and panting, nails in his back, mouth sucking kiss marks against his jaw. Had anyone ever wanted him this badly? This openly? There wasn’t a hint of guile in her, not a shred of self-consciousness or pretending. Her hips flexed upwards, trying to get him to move.
It pained him to withdraw, but it was brief, because then his hips snapped forward and her nails bit into him, lines of fire against his back. He wanted to fuck her raw, break her in two, leave her marked and bruised with the evidence of him. A quiet, feral noise came from him as he set a punishing pace. Perhaps faster than she was ready for. The bounce of her tits was intoxicating, rhythmic and perfect, and her face—fuck, her face—was so open.
He seized her hips hard with both hands, determined to not stop until she had come again. He wanted to feel her clench around him. That would be sweetest, to feel such strong and desperate pleasure all around him; Severus managed to free one hand from her hip and immediately found her clit, trying to match the pace he was setting. She was absolutely dripping from him, the wetness so alluring, and he slipped her clit between two fingers, stroking, building pressure.
“FUCK!" she cried out, and he felt her break all around him, shattering. The clench was so strong he saw silver sparks behind his eyes, and the motion he was making could only be described as rutting as he spent himself inside her. Both her legs were locked tightly around his hips, and it was the only thing keeping him inside her, or perhaps keeping him upright.
Suddenly exhausted, he propped himself against the kitchen table, leaning hard on one hand. The other was still stroking her, gentler now, watching her thrash every time he did so. Each light tweak of her clit made her spasm around him. It was exhilarating.
Severus kissed her again, unhurried and sweet. When he drew back, she was looking at him with such blatant affection it stung.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice gone, and it broke him.
They made it as far as the couch, ten feet away. Hermione was loath to move but Severus, grumbling, pointed out he was not of an age to lie about on kitchen tables and still wake up with a functional back in the morning. He cast several spells, wandlessly, wordlessly, and they fell onto the small brown couch together in a tangle of limbs. Hermione reached, groping about, until she found an afghan and dragged it over them.
She was shy again, peeping up at him from where her head rested on his chest. Her fingers were tracing little patterns through the hair there, toying. He couldn’t stop himself from running his hands over her skin, feeling the flex of her muscles, the soft curve of her hips and calves.
A twinge of a thought: Mine.
He banished it.
“What are you thinking?” she asked. There was a hint of anxiety in her voice, as though she feared he was regretful, but on the heels of his discouraged thought he became rather paranoid she knew Legilimency.
Severus sighed, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The gesture made her positively radiant. “I am thinking,” he began tiredly, “that I am an old, foolish man.”
“You’re not old,” she said immediately, “you’re thirty-seven. My parents are much older than you.”
“Not disputing the foolish, I see,” he growled, and she smirked at him.
“Not disputing that, no,” Hermione said, pretty and preening.
He kissed her then, and she was so hungry for it again that it took his breath away. The shift of her body against his was maddening—they were so much closer somehow, with her legs straddling him thusly, breasts tantalisingly within reach of his mouth.
“Can we?” she mumbled between kisses, “Again? Please?”
He was such an old man, but that was because he had never felt young. At least, not until now, he supposed, lounging about on a lumpy couch with a naked, amorous witch. “Temptress,” he purred, rolling his hips against hers.
“Just one more time,” Hermione whispered to him, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
At some point, they had stopped counting the times.
She never quite left, even when she was gone. Hints of her flitted all about Spinner’s End; a golden-brown curl lying in the sink, a bar of sweet-smelling soap left in the bath, a forgotten book left lying on its front, spine cracked neatly down the middle. Hermione Granger filled all the little gaps in his life, buying new mugs for tea and replacing his old saggy armchair with a new leather one. They had broken the old one into a frankly irreparable state, after a particularly invigorating afternoon that Severus remembered fondly.
And yet she never asked for more. It rankled him only slightly, as it reminded him of his previous dalliances who also wanted nothing to do with him; but she seemed so happy to see him, every time. Each time she arrived at his doorstep, perhaps with groceries for dinner or a new negligee to entice him with, it felt a little more wrong that she had to leave the next morning. The house felt emptier without her.
Maybe that was enough. She wouldn’t stay, but she would at least keep coming back.
“You’re off again,” she said one day as they lay about on a golden Sunday morning. (His favourite day—Sunday. He had come to call it the Day of Splendour in his head, because that’s what it was: lazy, beautiful splendour.) “Knut for your thoughts?”
He said nothing, merely kissed her forearm where her scar had faded to a pinky-silver-white. “Just the typical dreadful trite,” Severus said dryly.
“Gloom and doom, as always,” she laughed, and stretched in his arms, the full glorious length of her against him. “Harry said you should come to the next Ministry gala. It’s in honour of McGonagall’s retirement. It’d mean a lot to them if you came.”
She could ask him for anything and he’d give it to her, he realised, running a hand down her side. “If you wish,” he said, amused. This seemed to surprise her, and she grinned, pressing her advantage.
“Do you have dress robes?” Hermione asked. “We could go shopping.”
“No," Severus said with an air of finality, and kissed her.
“You have to look smart for your first public appearance,” she laughed against his lips, “The mysterious, reclusive war hero, Severus Snape, about to re-enter public society.”
“Do you have dress robes?” he shot back, “I seem to recall you refusing to attend the last Ministry gala for such reasons.”
“Yes, but they expect that,” Hermione said, propping her chin on the shelf of her hand, her smile so openly affectionate that it made his heart ache. “I’m supposed to look like a busybody Ministry official, not a beautiful, glamorous witch.”
“What a surprise that will be then,” he told her, a rare smile on his face, “when I arrive at the gala with a beautiful, glamorous witch on my arm.”
She laughed, thinking he was joking. “Oh, are you going to ask Luna to go with you?” Hermione said, her eyes crinkling merrily. Seeing the expression on his face, she stopped. Her smile faltered. “Severus—”
“Hermione,” he said, equally as serious.
“People will talk,” she said.
“Let them,” he answered. “Take an advertisement out in the Prophet , for all I care.”
She was looking at him with a queer expression on her face, bright and curious and shocked. “Do you—no, Severus, really,” she rolled over, sitting up now, the blanket falling from her shoulders, “really, really, what are you saying?”
Those obsidian eyes were contended, and she drank it in, committing the image to memory. A satisfied Snape, sprawled amidst blankets and sheets, looking at her like he wanted to look at nothing else in the world.
“I’m saying I’d do anything you asked,” he drawled, tangling his fingers in her hair.
And that, at least, was true.
-fin-