Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Six

A blast of warm air, a muttered destination, a brief whirl of green fire and hearthways - they were travelling by Floo. Hermione didn't take her face out of Snape's shoulder, didn't open her eyes even when he laid her down on a bed too wide to be an infirmary cot and too soft to be her own. She felt him pull off her shoes, rather as if she'd been a sleepy toddler; heard him snort - no doubt at their impracticality - and sighed with pleasure, as a squashy down-filled duvet settled over her and she felt velvety-soft corduroy against her cheek.

Ahh - so warm. And then his footsteps started to recede - wait, that's not how it's supposed to happen! - and she jackknifed back up to a sitting position as if sprung from an ejector seat.

"Don't leave," she said, eyes trying to fight their way open. He sighed.

"I'm right over here. I won't go far."

She scowled in the direction of his voice, then ruined her intended effect by yawning. "You're too far away."

Another sigh. He scraped his chair a scant inch closer. "Better?"

"I want you next to me," she said stubbornly, and thought she might have heard him groan.

"Hermione -"

"Please."

Hesitation. And then the bed dipped slightly under his weight, and she finally had what she wanted, which was the whole lean, tensile length of him stretched along her back, six-feet-plus of reluctant, snarky body shield, keeping the world at bay. She groped for his arm, tugged it around her waist, linked her fingers with his, and tucked their entwined hands underneath her body with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Happy now?" Still sarcastic. Hermione decided not to take it personally - keeping up witty conversation at this point was becoming too much of an effort.

Oh, yes, she thought, and smiled to herself.

"Getting there," she said out loud, yawning again - and took the final step into merciful, long-elusive sleep.

**

Severus lay awake and watched her sleep.

A couple of times, he'd tried to reclaim his arm, but she'd only muttered some sleepy imperiousness or other, furrowed her creamy forehead in unconscious obstinacy, and clung on tighter.

Eventually, he'd given up.

Apart from the fact that he'd lost feeling in his right arm from elbow to fingertip half an hour ago - if she didn't wake up soon, he might well be facing amputation - he had no serious objections to the situation.

Save, of course, that he shouldn't be in it to begin with. What he was going to say if Albus or Minerva decided to peek in on the patient unannounced, he had no idea.

Undoubtedly, he should have taken her to the infirmary - or even to her own room. Anyplace but here.

On the other hand, these were the safest rooms in the castle. He ought to know; he'd chosen them for exactly that reason, years ago.

And damn it, just because she thought she was invincible didn't mean she actually was.

She stirred, turned, and mumbled something that he didn't catch, pushing the duvet down to her waist in the process. It wouldn't have been an immodest gesture even if she was awake - she was still covered by at least two layers of clothing, after all - but the move was so natural, so implicitly sensual, that Severus thought he might have forgotten how to breathe.

Yes, he thought, moistening suddenly-dry lips, the infirmary would definitely have been a better idea.

And then he found himself under attack.

She advanced on him in her sleep, fighting one arm free and twisting it instinctively over his shoulder and around his neck like a warm, fragrant little tendril of Devil's-Snare. Severus shifted position, in a bid for escape, and immediately realised his tactical error: not only had the move landed him on his back instead of his side, but her lips were now on a parallel with the hollow of his throat. And that brush of contact - besides making all his insides twist into a slippery Gordian knot of hopeless lust - worked on the drowsy bundle of temptation in his arms like an unspoken invitation.

She nuzzled lazily at his throat, holding him down with her upper body angled over his and drawing on his hammering pulse with her mouth as if she intended to pull it out through his skin. Through the rage in his groin, the sparks dancing along his nerve endings, Severus dimly registered that her capable little fingers had threaded themselves through his, and were now holding his hands in gentle but determined captivity, just above his head.

It wasn't until her breath misted his right earlobe, however, that he realised she was awake.

"Stop," he said thickly, and was answered with an amused puff of breath that sent a hurricane spinning down his spine, followed by a playful nibble from those exemplary white teeth.

"But you feel so strong," she murmured, the whispered words doing illegally arousing things to the tiny hairs inside his ear. "And you taste so good. I could do this forever."

I wish you would, Severus almost said, and managed to stop himself only by biting down hard on his tongue.

His brain wasn't quite working the right way at the moment.

Hermione had managed to kick off the duvet still cocooning her lower body; now, she wriggled astride him, her robes rucked up to her waist, and turned the attentions of that busy mouth to his other ear.

"Been so long since I slept," she said against his temple, gasping as her pelvis rotated against his. "Been so long since I haven't been worried - haven't been scared. Since I haven't dreamed myself back there again."

She let go of his hands, only to rip open the collar of his robes and tug determinedly in the direction of his waist. "I've never seen you. I want to see you."

His hands went to her shoulders with the intention of pushing her back, but were immediately distracted by the buttery skin at her nape, the clean line of her jaw. "Hermione - please," he said, desperately, and she looked him straight in the eye.

"Look," she said, her oh-so-reasonable tone at odds with her glittering, desire-dilated pupils and her swollen, succulent mouth. "I listened to you, back in November. You said 'Stay away from me,' and I did." For a moment, that lush mouth turned sulky. "You took yourself out of the equation. You took the choice away from me. And I let you do it."

She leaned down and nipped at his lower lip, not quite what he'd call 'gently'. "Now," she said, "it's my turn to talk, and your turn to listen. You were wrong."

Severus blinked. "I was?"

He couldn't quite access rational thought at the moment, not with her squirming against him like that. "About what?"

"About everything." She wasn't playing now, wasn't flirting - she looked almost angry. "Why should we wait until I've gone and come back, when there's no guarantee that I will, or that I can?"

Why, indeed? agreed his straining, churning body. He was almost lost.

But wait a minute.

Something in her tone clutched at him - he'd felt that fatalistic desolation before, himself, and seeing it in her cut through the red haze of desire that was swirling around him like scissors through cr'pe. He pushed himself up on his pillows, gently dislodging her onto the comforter next to him and determinedly ignoring her gasp of dismay.

"That's precisely why we should wait," he said. "So that it's your decision entirely - to come, or to stay away."

"Some decision I'll be able to make, rotting in Azkaban," she said, her tone defiant. Her eyes were just a bit too bright, her gaze too hard. Severus frowned.

"Come again?" He shook his head. "Azkaban? What does Azkaban have to do with anything?"

Hermione sighed impatiently. "I told you already, this morning," she said. "Why do you think I haven't slept for the last two weeks? Unforgivable Curse. Life in Azkaban. Corrupt Minister of Magic. Remember?"

Light was dawning, slow but sure. Gods, but you're a dunce, Severus. He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. "Let me get this straight: you think Fudge is going to send you to Azkaban for the rest of your life, just for casting Imperio on your would-be rapist and the accessory to your murder?"

The very thought was laughable. "That's honestly what you've been worried about, all this time?"

She glared at him, her eyes like stones but her soft mouth trembling. "I don't see what's so amusing about it," she spat. "Give me one good reason why it's not a realistic scenario, given what we both know about wizarding law and the current state of the Ministry."

Oh, you poor child, Severus thought, and thanked whatever flickering remnant that remained of his lucky star, that he hadn't just lain back and let her have her way with him. The girl sitting next to him, hugging his goose-feather pillow as if it was a teddy bear, needed reassurance right now far more than she needed sex.

Carefully, he extended his hand and took hers into a loose clasp.

"I can give you several reasons, Hermione," he said, "not just one. But above all others is this: we would never have let it happen."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He squeezed her hand a little tighter. "Albus. Minerva. Poppy. Myself." He looked searchingly into her bewildered brown eyes. "Do you think we exist solely to cram facts into your brain? Don't you think we care about you - that we feel responsible for you, and shoulder that responsibility gladly?"

She hadn't thought of that, he realised, and shook his head in exasperation. "If Cornelius Fudge had lifted so much as a finger in your direction," he said, "he would have found the whole castle aligned against him."

She let out a shuddery breath. "Oh."

A new thought: "But what if he orders it? What if Malfoy lies? What if he didn't believe me?"

"Malfoy," Severus said calmly, "is the least of your worries."

She looked at him, startled. "How can you say that? He loathes me."

"Even so." She didn't believe him, he could see that. "I give you my word, Hermione, that five minutes after we left the Headmaster's office, Lucius Malfoy was spilling his figurative intestines onto the table in front of him for examination, and backing up your story down to the last dotted 'i'."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know?"

Severus couldn't hold back a smirk. "Because," he said. "He's been Salazar Slytherin's guest for the last few weeks - a fate, by the way, that a noble Gryffindor soul such as yourself undoubtedly wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. By comparison, the dementors are kind. And because ..."

"Yes?"

He grinned outright, and gave her hand another comforting squeeze. "Well, because you've managed to make friends in low places, Miss Granger, and because vigilante justice has always been a hallmark of Slytherin House." He took a deep breath, then paused for dramatic effect.

"You see," he said, "Sal's had his wand aimed at Malfoy's balls, ever since they left the dungeons this morning."

**