Roman Holiday

Chapter Eighteen

The next two weeks passed mostly without event. Hermione sent Harry a belated-birthday card, in care of the Weasleys, that she’d doctored with a Flattery Hex, so that it shouted improbable compliments when opened.

Not her cuppa, exactly, but she thought he’d like it. It wasn’t long before she received a reply:

**

Hermione,

Thanks for the card! Fred and George have confiscated it in the name of research, and are trying to figure out how to transfer your charm to Ginny’s bedroom mirror. The mirror’s smarter than they are, though - whenever they come near it now, it shouts for Ron’s mum.

Ron’s dad came home from work with a strange story about you - said you put the Petrificus Totalus curse on Lucius Malfoy, and that Malfoy paid Fudge a bundle to keep it off the record. Is it true? And if it is, Ron wants to know: Did Malfoy’s eyes roll up in his head, the way Neville’s did our first year?

It sounds like your summer was more exciting than ours. Can’t wait to see you and hear all about it!

Harry

**

Hermione sighed and tucked the letter into the inner pocket of her robes. Any explanation she offered of her summer holiday was going to require a fair bit of editing, before it saw the light of day.

She and Draco hadn’t commenced with the secret-admirer shtick yet; they’d decided that the effort was wasted until school was in full session. Most days, they studiously avoided each other - or met at prearranged places by vastly different, circuitous routes. Their courtship seemed to be travelling in reverse, at least in terms of the physical realm: lacking a proper bed which they could both legally occupy, at the same time, they were limited to gestures of affection which could be expressed vertically, underneath an Invisibility Cloak, without undue robe-rustling or other suspicious noises.

Exciting as this all was, it was ultimately frustrating. On a happier note, two weeks back at school with minimal distractions (during daylight hours, at least) had been just what she needed to finish up her research project on Palestrina. The paper for Muggle Studies was done and handed in. The chord analysis of the Mass she’d heard at St. Peter’s was complete, and had been translated into theoretical astrophysics equations for Arithmancy. She’d almost finished copying over her notes into essay form for Professor Vector.

There was one more facet to the gem, one more small piece of the Palestrina puzzle that she’d like to solve, before she dropped the subject and moved on. It was most intriguing, perhaps more so than the other parts she’d already finished, and it would make a kick-ass extra credit project, if she could pull it off.

The trouble was, she’d have to talk to Snape first.

**

She tracked him down in one of the smaller laboratories off the main Potions classroom and stood in the shadow of the doorway for a second or two, hoping to gauge his mood before she divulged her presence. He was back in his professor’s robes, but Hermione saw with faint surprise that he’d pulled his hair back into its summer ponytail. Probably his hair got in the way when he worked, she thought, and tried not to think about how the swept-back style accentuated the intent angle of his jaw, the strong plane of one knife-edged cheekbone, and made that thin-lipped mouth look almost lush in comparison.

“Come in, Miss Granger, or go away,” he said without turning around. “But don’t stand there lurking; you’re in my light.”

“Sorry,” she said, pretending to look apologetic, and slid as unobtrusively as possible into the room and onto one of the high stools along the wall, where she could watch him without being in his way. A black substance the consistency of motor oil was bubbling in his cauldron. As she watched, he powdered an unfamiliar seed-pod with a mortar and pestle, added and demolished what looked like two ordinary lightning-bugs, threw the mixture into the sticky black goo, and lowered the flame under the cauldron with one tersely muttered word. After a few seconds of simmering, the mixture suddenly hissed loudly, emitted a belch of bright orange smoke, and subsided. Hermione studied it curiously; it was now much thinner and the colour of cloves, flecked with vermilion. The odour made her nose twitch.

“Pepper-Up,” she murmured, and handed him the ladle he was now reaching for. “But what was that seed pod?”

“Dried angelica pepper,” he said absently. “Developed by Mayan wizards. Native to South America. You won’t cover it until next year. Too expensive to import.” He shot her a sharp look. “As long as you’re here, why don’t you make yourself useful? This is going into bottles for the hospital wing, and they all need labelling.”

She capped and labelled jars for the next half hour, admiring the way their contents glowed softly in the dim light, like the cinnamon apple butter her grandmother had made the summer Hermione visited her in Yorkshire. She’d almost forgotten her original reason for seeking out Snape, until he muttered a Scouring Charm at the cauldron, set down his ladle, and turned that penetrating black gaze on her.

“All right, Miss Granger,” he said. “Much as Madam Pomfrey will appreciate the fact that you and not I labelled those bottles - my penmanship is somewhat lacking - it’s not your main purpose for skulking around my rooms, and I confess to a certain amount of morbid curiosity. What do you want?”

He was being Blunt, Nasty, Sarcastic Snape, for which Hermione was grateful … at this point, it was Tea-Brewing, Sexual-Innuendo-Spouting Snape who made her nervous. She capped the last bottle, set it neatly in the crate beside its siblings, and turned to face him.

“I’ve been doing extra-credit research on Palestrina,” she said. “Originally, the idea was to write a paper for Muggle Studies, but that project suggested the need for some mathematical analysis, so I’ve brought Arithmancy into the equation as well. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

He snorted. “Fascinating. I’m sure you’re about to get to the part that concerns me. Sometime before I retire, if I’m fortunate.”

Her lips twitched. “I’d like to integrate Potions into my study, in addition to the rest,” she said. “With your permission, of course.”

“How do you intend to do that?” He sounded half-skeptical, half-bored.

Hermione took a deep breath. “I’ve read some of Palestrina’s notes,” she said. “He mentioned a potion -“

“The Illuminata Elixir?” Snape’s voice was noncommittal, but there was an undeniable spark of shrewd interest in his eyes. “Those notes are in Latin, Miss Granger.” He frowned. “And encoded, as I recall.”

She shot him a twenty-four-carat smile of pure triumph. “Cracked it last week. Been translating ever since.” The smile clouded. “But I’m stuck now. There are some ingredients I don’t recognize, and I haven’t been able to find them referenced anywhere in the library. I was wondering …” She trailed off apprehensively.

“Yes?” His expression was inscrutable. She gulped, gathered her courage in both hands, and persevered.

“Would you help me with it?”

**

Well, it’s finally happened, Severus told himself viciously. It was bound to. You’ve met a student who you can’t scare away.

And God knows you’ve tried. She’s more like those friends of hers than even you suspected - more perseverance than common sense.

She was perched on the stool again, that ragamuffin hair of hers in alluring disarray, a worried smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

He scowled. She was worried for all the wrong reasons.

Not that he’d snap at her. Not that he’d be sarcastic, or rude, or insult her, or … worse. Though she certainly had reason to expect that of him.

If she was scared of anything, he thought, studying that hopeful little face through hooded eyes, it was that he’d turn her down.

And he was tempted, make no mistake. The Illuminata was time-consuming and difficult - and for a sixth-year student, even a brilliant one, unbelievably advanced. And that was just the brewing stage - the substance itself held its own dangerous fascinations, once completed, and if he started this project with her, he’d be duty-bound to see it through to the bitter end.

Damn it, she got in the way of all his nobler intentions. One way or another.

Severus sighed. Who was he to stand in the way of scholarship?

“All right, Miss Granger,” he said. “I’ll have a look at your translation. And I’ll oversee your extra-credit project.” Mostly to distance himself from the stunned joy on her face, he held up a reproving finger. “On one condition.”

She looked a bit wary at that - that dangerous, satiny edge was back in his voice - but nodded anyway. “Of course, Professor. What is it?”

He summoned his fiercest scowl. “Babysitting your Illuminata will put me behind on the routine potions I supply to Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster. I’ll require your assistance on Tuesday and Thursday evenings to help with the backlog.”

Hermione beamed at him in obvious relief. “Oh! That’ll be fascinating. I’ve always wanted some practical experience with medi-potions …”

“Well, then.” Snape curled his lip at her and injected all the disdain he could muster into his voice. “Are you going to sit here babbling at me all day, or do you think I might get a moment’s peace before the start of term?”

**

That was it.

Hermione had had enough.

One minute, she thought furiously, he’s soft-voiced and insinuating and, despite all physical indications to the contrary, the Sexiest Man Alive. The next minute, he’s all business, and the same utter, utter bastard he’s always been.

And I’m supposed to play by his rules, she fumed to herself. Be the good student in class. Be fascinated when he wants me that way. Run along like a little mouse when he gets tired of the game and wants to be alone.

Well, no more.

Time was, she’d have wilted under that scathing tone, muttered an apology, and scurried off teary-eyed. But those days were long gone.

Good riddance, Hermione thought, and slid off her stool, her most angelic smile firmly in place. “Trying to get rid of me, Professor?”

He hadn’t expected that, oh no, but he was too well-trained in the art of self-concealment to let her see his astonishment. If anything, it was his sudden, utter stillness that gave him away.

Time to see if mercurial, moody Professor Snape could deal with a taste of his own maddening medicine.

Time to see if she could dish it out, as well as she could take it.

She took a step or two closer to him. “Am I … annoying you?”

“You rarely do anything but,” he said, but the response was automatic; his eyes were caught in hers, and Hermione felt an exhilarating rush of power race out to her fingertips, down through her calves.

Is this what he was offering me lessons in?

Because maybe, just maybe, I don’t need them as much as I’d thought I did.

She moved closer still, deliberate and steady, keeping that eye contact going until she could see the blood beating at his throat, could feel the furnace of his body radiating heat at her through his robes. He took an uneasy step back.

“What do you want, Professor?” she murmured, and kept walking, forcing him to give ground. Back, back, back, until he was up against the wall, until there was nowhere else for him to go. That’s right, she thought, look at me, look at me and really see me.

See more than a little girl. More than someone you can scare.

“Hmm? You want me to walk away?” She went up on her tiptoes, bracing herself with both hands on his shoulders, and put her mouth next to his ear, close enough that she could feel his heart beating, feel his pulse hammering in his throat.

Oh, this girl power was heady stuff.

“Miss Granger -“ Strangled sound, harsh and reedy and the farthest thing imaginable from that dangerous silky whisper he used to such great effect. “Don’t be stupid,” he rasped. “You don’t really want this. Go play your little games with Malfoy; he’ll appreciate them more.”

“Is that what you want?” she breathed into his ear. “Really? You don’t want to finish what you started, back in Rome?”

She pressed herself into him, feeling that tense hard body vibrate against hers. “Or don’t you know?”

For her virgin voyage into Scary Sex Games Territory, this wasn’t going too badly, Hermione thought. But she was starting to lose her nerve. He was bigger than her. Stronger.

For someone with such greasy hair, he smelled amazing.

And his whole body was trembling with the fight for control.

Time to cut and run, she decided, and shifted, just slightly, so she could brush her lips over the apex of one elegant cheekbone.

“Let me know what you decide,” she breathed, and stepped back.

Turn and walk away. Just turn and walk away, and don’t look back.

Except that the next second she was up against the wall herself, her wrists held over her head, and HE was pressing into HER. And that was something different entirely, Hermione discovered. Unbelievable how all that power-euphoria could dissolve into heart-in-your-throat helplessness, in less than a second.

He leaned against her, his forehead an inch from hers, his knee bent slightly and shoved, not quite gently, in between her legs, so she couldn’t kick. He pressed it up and in, rocking it slightly from side to side, and Hermione felt her whole self go limp and weak with pure, terrified delight - as if she was on a roller coaster, going up and up and up slowly, so slowly, and all the while wondering when the world would drop out from beneath her, when the apprehension would turn into stomach-lurching, screaming exultation.

She might have some raw talent at this sort of game, but obviously he had his black belt. You’re outclassed, Granger, she told herself. You idiot.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

“I’ve decided,” he growled, and the silk was back in his voice, enough to make Hermione shudder against him. “You know WHAT I’ve decided, you little fool?” He jiggled his knee again and watched in satisfaction as she squirmed like a pinned butterfly. “I’ve decided I’m tired of being underestimated by hormonal little girls who are too smart for their own good.”

“I’m eighteen,” she gasped, her indignation at being called a little girl winning out momentarily over the other twelve emotions knotted up in her stomach. “Technically. The Time-Turner, remember?”

He ignored this. “Believe me, Miss Granger,” he gritted. “This is not something to play with. These aren’t weapons you want used on you, regardless of what you said in my office the other evening.” He tightened his grip on her wrists, yanked her a little higher so her toes were off the dungeon floor. “You want to be scared a little? Titillated a little? Go read Gilderoy Lockhart.” His mouth was an inch from hers. “Play the tease with me again, and you’re going to get taken apart, from the inside out.”

And then he kissed her, and it was meant to scare her - she could tell - the hard set of his lips, the brutal demands his mouth made of hers, the way he had managed to shift her body so she was writhing against his thigh. Not the fizzy, dizzy delights of a Draco kiss, this - kissing Snape was like racing the fine edge of a cliff and feeling the earth crumble beneath your feet.

She couldn’t move away - her wrists were still held against the dungeon wall. Couldn’t close him out, not when he had her pinned open and soft and pulsing, squirming and yanking at her wrists and making soft pleading noises into that deeply demanding mouth.

Another minute and something would happen, something cataclysmic and earth-shaking and world-changing. Another minute and she’d be there. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please …”

And then he’d stopped, drawn away, dropped the stabilizing weight of his body against hers, and she would have fallen if he weren’t still holding her hands. “Run,” he said, his eyes glittering madly. “Run or stay, Miss Granger, but if I were you I’d run. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Her chin trembled, her body ached with unfulfillment, and one look at him told her that what he’d just done wasn’t all he wanted to do.

Discretion is the better part of valor, she thought wildly. Get out while you can.

She jerked her wrists out of his grip, pushed past him, and ran.

**

TBC