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Hermione wasn't exactly sure how she had ended up in this position. Well, that wasn't exactly true. They had put her here. Hmm. That was the first time she had ever thought of Dumbledore and Voldemort as "they." She felt vaguely guilty but immediately dismissed the feeling. Voldemort had commanded, Dumbledore had encouraged…. Of course, if she was going to be fair, it wasn't just the two of them. There was the Ministry, the Malfoys, and thousands of Death Eaters. All of them had played a part in the formation of this particular moment.
This particular moment happened to involve her standing at the top of the astronomy tower with Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape. Professor Snape, of course, was the one who had her attention at the moment, and that was mostly because he was holding her hand. And because they were now bound together for life.
Soon they would be down in the dungeons, eating dinner as if nothing were amiss. Granted, that was the safest place she could possibly be right now, but it irritated her no less that her choice of husband had been stolen from her by the same two people who had stolen so many choices from Harry, Professor Snape, and presumably countless others. For the first time since the war had started, she really and truly felt like a chess piece. She didn't like it.
§§§§§§§
"Miss Granger," Professor Snape's voice brought her back to the present. He was offering her the rolls. She silently took one and nodded her head in thanks. She didn't pay much attention to her food as she ate. Though, truthfully, she was playing with her food more than eating it. Her plate was fine china with a predictably green design around the edge. It caught her attention, and she began tracing the design with her fork. "Miss Granger, if you do not wish to eat, don't. But stop making that irritating noise," Professor Snape said, barely containing his annoyance at the sound of her utensil dragging across the plate.
Hermione stopped, as requested, and picked up her glass of wine. She held it for a moment, staring at the saturated red. Then, without raising her eyes, and in a conversational tone, she quietly said, "That's not my name anymore."
Out of the corner of her eye Hermione saw all of his movement stop. After a moment he set his utensils down on his plate, and she downed her glass of wine. When she had swallowed the last of it, she set down her glass and looked up at him. He hadn't moved and was looking at her with a rather unreadable expression. He didn't seem to be annoyed, but he certainly wasn’t enjoying a good joke either.
"Hermione, then." His tone was unfamiliar to her. It wasn't laced with condescension, irritation, or fury. It was… personable. Well, maybe not personable, but something similar. He refilled her glass. "Though I may seem unconcerned for the comfort of those around me, it has occurred to me that you will be experiencing a certain amount of discomfort through this… transition. Because we must endure each other's company for the remainder of our years, I will endeavor to make this transition easier for you." Funny, he almost made the word "endure" sound like it didn't connote unpleasantness. Hermione nodded her thanks again, and he continued. "It is traditional for wizarding newlyweds to seek seclusion following their nuptials, seeking to acclimate themselves to the habits of the other. During this time, I offer you an opportunity. I know that young women in particular require certain… things in order to adjust to new intimacy. So, while we are in seclusion, I will indulge you. If you wish to talk or… hold hands," he practically spat it out, "simply ask. I will do my best to accommodate your needs."
Though his words and tone had been almost cold and typically Snape-ish, Hermione knew that he was trying to be kind. "Thank you." He inclined his head and resumed his meal.
They ate in silence, but when Hermione had finished, she fixed her gaze on him until he looked up inquiringly. "Would you tell me a secret? I mean, not a bad one, but a pleasant one."
The corners of his mouth quirked up into what, on him, was virtually a smile. "Very well." He paused a moment to think. Then, "When I was very young, I had a pet rabbit."
Hermione couldn't help it. She giggled. She laughed at the unexpectedness of it, and she laughed at the relief of having discovered that her Potions professor really was just a person who had once been a child. He frowned for a moment, but, presumably having sussed out the true motivation behind her laughter, his face returned to its ordinary expression, and he poured her more wine. Before she could stop herself, she giggled, "Professor, are you trying to get me drunk?"
That almost-smile again, "No, but I have heard rumors that young women acclimate themselves to uncomfortable situations rather easily when given intoxicants."
He's making fun of me, Hermione thought, but she couldn't bring herself to be angry. At least he wasn't scowling at her.
§§§§§§§
Hermione rolled onto her side and stared at the wardrobe she could just barely see in the dark. It was probably a very nice wardrobe, but she hadn't had a chance to admire it. Even now, she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that the old, worn wood barely registered.
She could feel him. She would swear she could. He was probably two and a half feet away, but despite the expanse of bed between them, she felt crowded. She had never shared a bed with a man before, and it was quite a bit more nerve-wracking than she had expected. Of course, she supposed that it wasn't so much his presence as the knowledge of what else would transpire in this bed that kept her awake. She was beyond nervousness. She was positively terrified. And who wouldn't be? Despite his attempts at kindness, Professor Snape was not a kind or gentle man. To be perfectly honest, Hermione couldn't really imagine him as a sexual being at all. For all she knew, he might be the worst lover in the world. Even worse, what if he wasn't, but she was? But as much as it terrified her, she had no desire to spend her life in a sexless marriage. She wasn't sure how she felt about the fact that he was of the same opinion. Hermione rolled onto her back.
"Miss Granger," his voice was sharp, "what is keeping you up and active when you should be asleep?"
A little irritated at his tone, she spat back, "I'm nervous."
His laugh was mocking. "Don't worry, Miss Granger, I'm sure you have learned many bad habits from your previous trysts, but at your age anything can be unlearned."
The silence was deafening. Hermione didn't know how to respond. She was mortified by his blatant jab at her inexperience.
Suddenly his face was looming above hers. She could see his eyes, gleaming in what little light there was. O gods, was he going to do it now? She wasn't ready!
But he just looked at her. With his penetrating stare. She felt like she had suddenly become a book that he was reading, and she wasn't far off the mark. After a dreadfully long moment he murmured, "I see," and his expression changed ever so slightly. He brought a hand up to her cheek and then lowered his lips to hers. The kiss was not passionate or demanding. Nor was it gentle or loving. If pressed, Hermione would have described it as methodical or perhaps thorough, but completely arousing. He began with her lips, stroking them with his own. Then tasting them. Soon, their mouths were open, and Hermione's breath was quick and shallow. Her hand rose up, wanting to touch him, but unsure of where or how. Then suddenly his mouth was gone, his nose dragging across her jaw to her ear. And in what could only be described as the sexiest voice she had ever heard, he murmured, "Don't be nervous," and then rolled away.
Hermione glanced over at his back. This man knew what he was doing.
§§§§§§§
This was the most delicious dream she had had in months. She would almost swear she could feel the fingers on her side, dancing over her skin, almost tickling, but arousing instead. And then there was the touch on her neck, trailed by warm breath.
Hermione clung to sleep, trying to keep the dream alive. Her body was humming with sleep and want, and she was unwilling to give up such a sensation. But, the dream had dissipated, and she was left with her legs firmly clamped together and her eyes squeezed shut.
When it became apparent that the dream wouldn't return, she opened her eyes. Professor Snape was serving himself breakfast at the small table on the other side of the room. Suddenly, Hermione became very aware of the fact that in her sleep, her nightshirt had ridden up above her waist and the covers had been kicked down, exposing her midriff. She hastily pulled her shirt down, and consequently drew his attention.
"I specifically requested cinnamon scones, but they've brought plain ones instead." His voice was irritated, as usual.
Hermione was a little disappointed, she loved cinnamon scones. "They?"
"The house-elves." He gave her a look that practically challenged her to make an issue of it.
Instead, she sat down and took a scone. "What's your favorite food?"
His eyes closed for a moment, as if to say, "not this again," but he took a breath and spoke. "I like tea."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's not a food, that's a drink."
He barely restrained his glare. It was too early for this. "Biscuits, then," he bit out in a clipped tone, "to have with my tea."
She nodded, satisfied, and served herself some of his apparently beloved tea.
As she ate, Hermione watched her professor-turned-husband. He was a very focused person. Even while eating breakfast, he was completely focused on cutting his sausage. As a teacher, his focus was terrifying when focused on her alone. She could vividly recall him towering above her cauldron, glaring at her as she added ingredients. She was glad that she had had more self control than Neville; at least she didn't drop her ingredients and collapse into a lump of fear, though she had frequently felt that she might.
"Miss Granger! Didn't your mother teach you not to stare?" he snapped without looking up from the scone he was buttering.
She quickly looked down to her plate and mumbled, "Sorry."
When she was done eating, Hermione glanced at the door to the bathroom. She wanted to take a bath, but wasn't sure of the procedure. Did he want to shower first? She didn't want to get into the bathtub only to have him barge in a few minutes later to shower. Should she ask? Or should she just go in and trust him to give her privacy?
His voice cut through her thoughts, "I have a few papers to mark. I'll leave you to your… toilette," and he got up and left the room.
Well, that solves that, then.
§§§§§§§
Hermione sat in front of the fireplace, toweling her hair dry. Almost as soon as she had exited the bathroom, he had swept past her and into the now steam-filled room. She stared at the flames. The nerves in her stomach were almost violent. She couldn't deal with this all day, but she didn't know how to make them go away. What could she do? She didn't think talking about it would make her feel better. Especially not when he grimaced at practically every attempt at conversation. She was sure a discussion about her feelings would be met with distaste and irritation. But there had to be something.
Much sooner than she had anticipated, the door to the bathroom opened, and he came out, walking directly over to her. She waited, thinking he had something to say.
He didn't.
"Professor…"
"Yes?" He seemed to be prompting something, but she didn't know what.
"Um, I was thinking. Perhaps if I could get used to… to touching you, I might feel more comfortable."
His eyebrow rose.
"I mean, maybe if we could just hug… or something?"
He stood motionless for a moment, then stepped forward, agitatedly motioning for her to stand. When she did, he wrapped his arms around her and simply stood still.
Hermione didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't this. Tentatively, she put her arms around his waist and tried to relax. Praying it wouldn't provoke him, she rested her head against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, and somehow that was a little calming. A reminder that he was just a person. They stood like that for a long time, learning to tolerate each other's presence.
Then, she felt his fingers twitch on her back. No, not twitching, he had begun to make small strokes on her back with his thumb. She was paralyzed for a moment, not knowing what to do. But, when he didn't do anything else, she relaxed again, enjoying the warmth of his body. After a few moments, his hand began to drift up and down her back, almost as if he were calming a crying child. But that was a ridiculous notion. She was sure he had never comforted a crying child in his life.
He bent his head to her ear. "Did you enjoy the bathtub?"
Hermione wasn't sure how, but he managed to make the question sound completely erotic. "Yes," she whispered, unsure of how to respond.
"I thought you would." His lips grazed her ear, and his hand skimmed over her side to the bottom of her ribcage and back down to her hip.
She was barely breathing, her eyes closed, waiting to see what his next move would be. Would he pull away like last night? Or would he continue? She was startled to realize that she wanted him to continue. As if on cue, his fingers slipped between the edge of her shirt and the waist of her pants to make small circles against the skin above her hip. "You used the olive oil soap." It wasn't really a question. He inhaled deeply, and dragged his nose around and under her ear to her hairline. And then his lips barely touched her behind her ear. Hermione felt her head tilt, the weight of it too much to hold up when she was flooded with so much arousal. His lips touched her again, below the ear. As her head drooped, his lips traveled down the length of her neck, brushing against her so lightly that her nerves became sensitized; she could feel every movement of his breath and lips. His hand pressed fully against her and slid up her side. His fingers brushed against the underside of her breast, the sensation heightened rather than muted by the fabric of her bra between them. Hermione opened her eyes with a gasp at his touch, but his mouth was immediately on hers, kissing her in a deep and demanding way. He kissed her for a long time, stroking her side but never venturing further.
Frustrated by the plateau they seemed to have reached, Hermione reached up behind his head, curling her fingers into his hair. A small sound escaped his throat, and he gripped her tighter. He began to move, then, leading her slowly toward the bed. The realization of their eventual destination shocked Hermione back into nervousness. He must have sensed it because he moved his mouth to her ear again and, in that voice, he murmured, "Don't be nervous," and kissed her beneath her ear. Her knees practically gave way, but it didn't matter because they were at the bed, and he was pressing her down. Hermione was frozen. She was caught between arousal and fear. She stared up at him. His eyes were different now. They were deep and dark, and they seemed to be looking into her, not just at her. She watched him as he held himself over her, wondering what he was going to do next. What he did surprised her; he started over at the beginning, lightly touching his lips to hers. He looked into her eyes again in a way that suggested he was trying to tell her something. Then she realized what it was: this was it. This was him at his warmest. He was trying to be gentle and kind for her. He would never be a great romancer, but he had patience and… aptitude. He would never give her roses or poetry, but….
"But I will give you this," he murmured as he stroked his hand along the side of her face and let her look, really look.
Hermione looked into his eyes and saw the man that was usually kept hidden. The man that felt. The man that desired. The man that desired her. She flushed. He waited patiently, watching her as the knowledge of his desire built her own and strengthened her confidence. Then she lifted her lips to his ear and whispered, "I'm not nervous."
And it began.