Roman Holiday

Chapter Six

This was Hermione’s dilemma: Should she tell Snape about Malfoy? Should she tell Malfoy about Snape?

Or not?

She was pretty sure Snape was on business for Dumbledore. If she told Malfoy that Snape was in Rome, it might blow his cover … she had yet to get a really straight answer from Malfoy on the subject of Voldemort, his father, and his own loyalties.

If she told Snape that Malfoy was in Rome, she’d might as well hold out her wrists for the cuffs. Her parents would have an owl within the day, and she’d be home the day after that.

Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t a dilemma. She was just going to have to juggle the two of them. Rome was a big city, right? How hard could it be?

First things first. Get Malfoy out of her apartment.

She fed him breakfast, packed his bag for him, put him on the back of the moped, took him to the nearest Sheraton, and checked him in.

He wasn’t exactly happy, but he dealt with it.

“Is this because I kissed you last night?”

“No,” Hermione said, and was surprised to realize that she meant it. “It’s so Mrs. Malione doesn’t worry about me. And so you don’t get your arse kicked when your father shows up to check on you.”

That was the right button to push, she guessed; Draco sneered, but didn’t press the issue further. “Want to have dinner tonight?”

“I’ve got plans,” Hermione said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

She kissed him on the cheek, glanced at her watch, and yelped. Eleven forty. If she expected to make it to San Pietro on time, she was going to have to drive on the sidewalk.

**

Snape was waiting for her when she dashed in at twelve-ten. He didn’t look pleased.

“Annoying as you are during the year, you’re at least punctual. Clearly the holidays don’t agree with you.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said, and clutched at the stitch in her side. “Traffic.”

He glared at her disapprovingly; today’s skirt wasn’t any longer than yesterday’s, and she was wearing a pair of Giulia’s high-heeled Prada sandals, leaving her slim suntanned legs bare from thigh to instep. “Miss Granger -“

“Hermione,” she inserted. He ignored her.

“—you may consider yourself extremely fortunate that I am a man of my word. I came perilously close to owling Dumbledore last night. I still should.”

“I’ve been here for two weeks,” she said. “One on my own. I’m fine.”

“Oh, the optimism of youth.” He shot her an unpleasant smirk. Hermione studied him thoughtfully.

He was kind of sexy, in a way. Lots more fashion sense than she’d have given him credit for. And with the hair scraped off his face, you could see his cheekbones. Killer. And those intense dark eyes. Yum.

Whoa, girl, she thought. Back off. The minute you start to check out Snape is the minute you’re ready for St. Mungo’s. Not the best idea you’ve ever had.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked quietly. “What are you watching for?”

His mouth tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’re trying to make it my business,” she pointed out. “Besides, I only want to help. I’m a Muggle-born; no one would suspect me of -“

His eyes flashed. “You’re a student, and one who overestimates her powers, at best. This isn’t your concern.”

“But -“ He had that immovable, dangerous look on his face again. Hermione let it drop.

“Fine,” she said. “Are we done?”

He considered her carefully, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “We’re done.”

“Are you still coming to dinner?”

That thin-lipped mouth curled up at one corner. “I don’t know, Miss Granger. Can you cook?”

She tossed her head. “You’re going to have to wait and see, aren’t you?”

**

Hermione’s dad liked to cook. Therapeutic, he claimed.

He also gardened, played the violin, read espionage novels and got up well before dawn to brew coffee. Some of Hermione’s earliest memories were of the two of them, sitting at the kitchen table at four in the morning - he in his bathrobe, she in her footie pajamas. He’d be on his third cup of coffee, and he’d carefully pour a splash into her tumbler of milk, ceremoniously handing her a spoon so she could add sugar and stir.

You’re encouraging her in bad habits, her mother complained.

Nonsense, her dad would say, ruffling Hermione’s hair. The girl couldn’t develop a bad habit if it followed her home and slept on her pillow. She’s pure sunlight.

She loved her mom. But her father was the sun and the moon.

Friday night was their night to cook, she and he, and until she left for Hogwarts they’d never missed a one. The Moveable Feasts, he’d called those dinners, after Hemingway. They chose the menu on Sunday afternoon - no spaghetti dinners, no mac and cheese; no, the challenge was the point, the harder the better, and once they’d gotten the hang of it they’d started the Theme of the Week.

Food from a certain country - spin the globe and point.

Food beginning with a certain letter of the alphabet - reach into the Scrabble bag and draw a tile. (“Q” wasn’t bad - quiche, quail - but “X” and “Z” had been a problem).

She’d never been homesick, in all her years at Hogwarts, except for Friday nights.

Could she cook, he asked. She snorted.

Professor Severus Snape was in for the surprise of his lifetime.

**

Snape was surprised, all right. And he wasn’t a man who liked surprises.

Candlelight, Billie Holiday on the stereo, a London broil that melted in his mouth.

What was Granger playing at?

He scanned the apartment with thinly veiled disapproval. Whoever this elusive cousin was, she had abysmal taste in furniture.

He tried not to think about how Granger would look spread out on that ridiculous sofa.

White against red. Soft on soft.

Stop it.

Oddly enough, they’d had a lot to talk about. She was a talented conversationalist; much more interesting outside Hogwarts than inside, if the truth be told. More outgoing, more sure of herself. Nothing to prove.

It must be hard on her, he thought. Living down the ordinary blood in her veins, day after day. Leaving behind the electric lights, the fast machines, the moving pictures spinning seductive stories in the dark.

The family. She spoke of them with so much affection in her voice, but her eyes were guarded. Nothing was the same now, that’d be his guess. How could it be?

She’d changed clothes, trading in the chic little teenybopper mini for a full-skirted, ankle-length linen sundress, the color of limes, that buttoned down the front and left her pretty arms bare. She’d kicked off the sandals, too, and was padding around in bare feet.

She looked like one of the Virgin Goddesses - Diana the Huntress, maybe. Snape was up on his Muggle myths; he wasn’t as provincial as he looked. Give her a bow and a silver stag, and she’d be off into the sky.

He was oddly irritated by that thought. She had come around to take his dinner plate, and without knowing quite why he put his hand on her wrist. Startled, she tried to draw away. He held on.

“How can you possibly think you’re safe here?” he asked. Her liquid-toffee eyes widened, then iced over.

“We’ve discussed this, Professor.” She tugged again. He persisted.

“No,” he said. “I’ve warned you about Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and you refuse to take them seriously. But has it occurred to you that you might be in danger, just by virtue of being a young girl living alone?”

“I can take care of myself.” Her voice was frigid. “Let go of me.”

He was suddenly full of something dark and unnameable. “Is that what you’re going to tell him? The man who presses his advantage, who decides to grab something he shouldn’t?” He reeled her in by her wrist, captured the other one behind her so she couldn’t slap at him. “’Let go of me’? You honestly think that’ll do it?”

Teach her a lesson. Make her see reason.

Touch her. Who cares why?

**

Hermione couldn’t breathe. Her arms were behind her back, her wrists held in a deceptively gentle grip that she couldn’t break. “Let go,” she repeated, and hated that her voice cracked. He’d been positively nice all through dinner - why was that soft voice scaring her now? “Please.”

He laughed, and the sound wasn’t even remotely amused. “’Please’? My dear Miss Granger, that’s the word men dream will fall from your lips. It’s not likely to make them stop.” He yanked, and she tumbled onto his thighs with a squeak. The next minute, he’d turned her over his knee. She tried to kick, but he was well out of range. “You can take care of yourself, eh?” he mocked. "I’d like to see you try now.”

She struggled on his lap, pulling helplessly at her arms as his free hand found her ankle and began slowly, tantalizingly, to slide up her calf, taking her skirt along with it. God. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that Snape had muscles before? Those damn professors’ robes, covering up a multitude of virtues. Every surface of his body was hard as rock, and his grip on her wrists felt like a vise.

His other hand had reached her knee. “Do something, Miss Granger,” he whispered. “Fight me off. Save yourself. Better do it quick.”

She felt cool air on her thighs and realized he’d flipped her skirt up to her waist. “You bastard,” she whispered, and heard him laugh.

“What, Granger? No screams?” She heard the clink of silver against china and a moment later felt metal against her skin. He was cutting off her panties. She started to shake.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

“You’d better tremble, you brat,” he said silkily. “If I can’t get you to board that plane any other way, maybe I can beat some sense into you.”

**

She was soft and white and flawless, squirming against his thighs like last night’s fantasy made flesh. “Go to hell,” she spat, and that made it perfect, the vitriolic icing on his angel food cake.

He raised his hand and brought it down, and she froze in shock. Not so much as a startled gasp escaped her; she was too surprised.

She hadn’t thought he’d do it.

His handprint bloomed on her skin like sunset on snow. He gave her another one to match. And another, just because symmetry was overrated.

She was still wriggling, but not as violently. “Given up, Miss Granger?” he murmured. “I thought you more … resourceful than that. Or can it be that you’re enjoying yourself?”

**

Hermione gritted her teeth. No way was he going to make her cry.

The bastard.

She felt him stroke the welts he’d made, felt those long, strong fingers ease farther down and insinuate themselves between her thighs. She tried to clamp off his access, but it was too late - he was already in. He made a soft little sound that she couldn’t decipher.

Evil delight, probably.

**

This was interesting, Snape thought. Two things were becoming rapidly apparent here: first, Hermione Granger had never been spanked before, and second, she liked it. She had a miniature rainforest between her legs.

He probed just a little further into the slick welcoming vortex of her and heard her moan.

**

Hermione didn’t know what he was doing now, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it to stop.

Pure delight, wet slippery oh my God shooting stars fingers my God what is he doing with his fingers didn’t even know that was between my legs building building oh God just open up just let him do it oh God oh God …

Another sharp smack. Another. Another. Faster now, probably harder, she didn’t care.

More fingers. She wanted more of the fingers.

“Please,” she gasped again, and he didn’t mock her for it this time, just pulled her up and spread her out across his knees and let her bury her head in his shoulder, let her scream and beg and clutch at him while those magical, knowing fingers stroked her to the moon and back again.

**

Time passed.

Severus was fuzzy on the details, but at some point they’d moved from the dining room chair to the red sofa. Hermione was still on his lap, her arms around his neck, her face turned into his chest.

He felt rather like a father cradling a daughter out of her nightmare. Except that, in this case, he’d BEEN the nightmare. In any case, she continued to cling to him, and he continued to hold her.

“You -“ Her voice was rusty from tears and muffled against his shirt. “You had one thing wrong.”

He had to steady himself before he spoke. “What was that?”

She turned her face up and caught his eyes with hers. “If I hadn’t trusted you, you never would have gotten so close.”

He flushed. “I meant to frighten you,” he said. “Only to frighten you.”

It was as close to an apology as she was going to get. She nodded.

“It worked.”

**

The minute he was gone, she dragged herself to the telephone and dialed the Sheraton. Draco picked up on the second ring.

“Draco, it’s Hermione,” she said. “We need to talk.”

TBC