Disclaimer: Anyone and anything you recognise belongs to J K Rowling; the story, however, is ours

MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 40 - Costing Not Less Than Everything

We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

And so it was that the Easter term of Hermione Granger's last year at Hogwarts came to an end. The last week had been taken up with the usual panicked rush of essays, revision timetables, exam question spotting and reassurances of mutual success or failure, depending on the company. Not to mention the batches of cleansers and shampoo that were needed to meet the persistent stream of orders that arrived at her via the twin methods of owl- and Lavender-post. The net effect of this was that her initial disorientation at finding herself - well, herself - again was quickly dispelled by the sheer need to deal with the practicalities.

Eventually, the last pieces of holiday homework were handed out, the last trunks were packed, the last orders of conditioner and moisturisers delivered. The Hogwarts Express had left Hogsmeade station, heading southwards towards King's Cross, taking both the concerned and the confident back to their families and their holiday plans. In this case the concerned and the confident also included Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who, together with Ginny, were heading back to The Burrow to "revise together", which would undoubtedly include large amounts of therapeutic Quidditch practice and Mrs Weasley's cooking. She had been invited to join them, but she had refused and been grateful when they hadn't pressed the point. She didn't feel up to dealing with the chaos of the Weasley household; if she wanted chaos, there was enough chaos going on in her own mind at the moment. And if she was feeling reluctant to be too far away from the primary source of that chaos, that was surely understandable.

The trivia of the end of term had not only forced back into her life as Hermione, it had also effectively presented her with the perfect excuse not to confront the single most pressing issue in her life - Snape. They had seen each other over the last week - of course they had. There had been potions classes and there had been the evenings where the experiments and the talks had continued. But as the days had passed and the familiar roles took over once more she found their rapport was ... not exactly strained ... but there was something. As she became the student, and he the teacher, something had gradually come between them. Something unspoken. And that something needed to be sorted out, she thought.

She lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling with one hand buried in Crookshanks' fur, idly petting him. Her last potions class had been ... well, strange. Oh, he had still taken points from her when he caught her preventing Neville from destroying yet more of his cauldron stock, but it had been almost perfunctory. He had used none of his presence or his devastating eye-contact to drive the point home. It wasn't anything that the boys would notice; the complaints from Harry and Ron were the same as ever. But she had noticed it; noticed the change and wondered at it.

She sighed and moved her hand from cat's stomach to cat's ears. Laying the elements of the situation out in her mind again, she began to play over the same scenarios that she had been deconstructing for the whole of the afternoon. Snape, Voldemort, Hogwarts, light, dark, Snape. She closed her eyes; thus far the ceiling had been utterly unhelpful in offering alternative solutions.

Which was probably because there were no alternative solutions, she thought miserably.

She needed to talk to Snape.

Which, in itself, was unlikely to be a problem. There were no classes which meant that he would be in his classroom, his office or his rooms. All of which were open to her; distant or not, he had certainly not given her to believe that she would be unwelcome. Whether or not that would change after her visit was a moot point. She had less idea of what his expectations of all this were than her own.

Reluctantly, she pulled herself off the bed. This wasn't going to improve by keeping. Grabbing her sweater, she made her way down to the dungeons. The classroom was empty when she opened the door; he hadn't told her that she was free to go in at any time, he just hadn't changed the wards. It was a very Snape was of conveying information, she thought. Closing and re-warding the door, she made her way to his office. Her soft knock at the door was answered by a brusque "Come in." Entering, she saw him sitting in on of the comfortable chairs, obviously reading a journal of some description. As she closed the door behind her, he laid it down beside the chair.

"Hermione," he said neutrally, "what can I do for you?"

She knew that he hadn't been expecting her. He didn't get up or move towards her in any way, but the tension in his body was palpable and his expression was wary. She knew what she wanted to say, but now that she was here, she wasn't at all certain how to begin. She bit her lip, searching for the words. Despite his watchfulness, a small smile touched his mouth.

"Why don't you just say it?" he suggested dryly, "and then afterwards we can pretend that it was tactful."

That made her smile in response, but only briefly.

Well, here goes ....

"We can't do this," she stated bluntly.

He didn't answer, just folded his hands in his lap, as if he was waiting for her to go on.

She swallowed and made a vague gesture at him and the room.

"This. Us. We can't do it, can we? Not because you're my teacher because you won't always be and not because you're older because I don't care about that. But it's too dangerous. If Voldemort found out he could tell people that you were having an affair with a student and then the Headmaster would have to fire you and that would make him look bad because he knew about it and let it go on. Or it would make him look bad because he didn't know about it and should have. And you couldn't continue to be a spy and we need that information and the Headmaster might have to resign and Hogwarts needs him." She knew she was beginning to ramble but she needed to get out everything at once. "Or Voldemort could hurt you, or even kill you, like that man, Rudd. And ...," she hesitated and then took a deep breath - if anything at all was to be said this was her only chance - "... I care about you far too much to put you at that sort of risk."

She waited for his response, wanting him to deny her words, to tell her that she was being foolish and that of course there was a way through this, one that she hadn't thought of. Snape studied his hands for a moment, then looked at her.

"I confess that I have been trying to think of a way to express those thoughts to you for several days. I should have known better than to underestimate you. Please accept my apologies."

That calm acceptance silenced her, even as the last shreds of irrational hope died. And the finality of it was almost a release, bringing in its wake a new and welcome calm. She nodded slowly, mind gradually clearing. Snape was still speaking, still looking at her.

"However, I believe that you omitted one consideration from your reasoning. Whilst it is true that Voldemort could use the knowledge of any association between us to compel or injure me, it would place you at an equal if not greater risk." He went back to examining his hands. "And I also care far too much about you to place you in that kind of danger."

__

Through the unknown, remembered gate when the last of earth left to discover is that which was the beginning; at the source of the longest river the voice of the hidden waterfall and the children in the apple-tree not known, because not looked for but heard, half-heard in the stillness between two waves of the sea.

The words were spoken, at last. The dance had been thorough, protracted, had taken time to develop momentum and then had almost stopped inelegantly, without resolution. Here, then, was that resolution.

He noted idly that Hermione had taken a deep breath at his words, and he could almost see the thought processes; the rapid spin through the possible interpretations, the doubt as to whether to take the interpretation that she wanted to take and - after a moment more silence - the resolute determination to take the leap of faith and accept her hopes. He had done the same at her words, after all. Fear of the unknown was less terrifying than fear of destroying the known but, when the known is not an option, there had seemed little to lose.

He nodded, once, when Hermione looked quickly at him as though to confirm her leap of faith - he had no desire to spin out that particular doubt, there was nothing to be gained by it. Intellectually, he was curious as to her reaction. The rest of him refused to think about it, which of course meant that he did nothing else.

It seemed the longest of moments, silence drawn between them and a sudden tension arcing in the air.

"I ... I think I needed to know that," said Hermione at last, her voice a near whisper between them. Snape let out a breath he hadn't been aware that he'd held, and stood, reaching a hand out to her.

"We both needed to know that," he said as she took his hand. "This may have all the elements of melodrama and Shakespearean tragedy but there is no point in allowing ourselves to assemble the misunderstandings in the traditional way. There will be plenty of time for misunderstandings in the future; we can at least close this particular scene with some clarity."

He held her closely now; as he spoke, he had pulled Hermione towards him and tucked her against him as they stood in the centre of his office. This, at least, would not be denied - none of it was denied, after all. It was merely impossible.

He felt Hermione shiver against him suddenly, and tucked a hand under her chin to lift her face; she wasn't crying, to his relief. He raised an eyebrow, and watched her smile.

"I wish I could still do that ..." she said quietly. "It's very effective."

"Not as effective as it used to be, clearly," replied Snape wryly.

Hermione laughed, the sound a little rusty. "Oh God ... I'm going miss you."

"And I you," he said, simply. Silence and tension again, but this time she was close enough that he could do something about it. He bent slightly and found her mouth with his; she had reached up at the same time. He would miss her; would miss this closeness and understanding - of self and other.

The rooms were cold but, for a while, Snape didn't notice. His arms around Hermione, he noticed nothing other than the taste and warmth of her mouth, her lips moving against his and the parry of exploration. One hand wrapped in her hair, the other exploring the soft skin of her back under her sweater and his awareness centred on the quiet sounds and moans between them.

He broke the kiss reluctantly as Hermione shivered again; he felt goosebumps on her back under his fingers and realised that, with the stove unlit, the room was chilly. That was, usually, conducive to clear thought but right now he wanted to be somewhere warmer. Somewhere warmer with Hermione.

Resting his forehead against hers, he waited until she opened her eyes.

"This will almost certainly make things more difficult ... but would you come with me to my rooms?"

If she had any sense, she would take this opportunity and leave; he could not make her do so, and would not make her do so. Happily ever after was not in the immediate future for either of them but he found that he needed this ... this farewell to hope. He could live without it but couldn't make the choice alone.

"Yes."

The definite reply reassured him; she would not take this route blindly but if she was willing to take the leap of faith then they would take it together.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and slipped his hand from under her sweater, resting it against the small of her back as they separated slightly. A couple of steps brought them to the door to his rooms; Hermione spoke the passwords to gain entry before he could. A small gesture - perhaps not even planned, habit was a hard thing to break - but it reassured him more than her simple reply had done. She knew what she was doing - what they were doing.

Silence again, punctuated by the rustling of clothes as they slowly undressed each other in the candelit late afternoon. Snape struggled to maintain a slow pace, not wanting to hurry but pulled on by the touch of her hands on him and the sensation of her skin against his fingers as he released fastenings and smoothed fabric from her winter-pale body. Flashes of recollection came to him and, for a moment, it was like looking into a mirror again when he had let the last scrap of lace fall to the floor between them. Hermione's hands stilled on the button of his waistband when he let his hands fall to his sides.

"Severus?" she asked eventually.

He drew in a ragged breath, his composure fractured for a moment into equal parts of love, grief, regret and arousal. He covered her hands with his own and bent to kiss her mouth again. "Just ... making sure I remember," he said eventually, barely lifting his mouth from hers to speak. He smoothed his hands over hers and up her arms to cup her shoulders for a moment, before smiling and trailing his fingers down to her breasts. The smile widened as she closed her eyes and tipped her head back; he rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, peaked and hard under his touch, and then pinched lightly. She gasped his name.

"So it works for you as well ..." he murmured, and struggled not to laugh when Hermione's eyes flew open as she took in what he meant. Then she grinned and he wondered what he'd let himself in for.

A blink later, he had his answer. Six months of dressing - and undressing - in his clothes had ensured that Hermione had no trouble undoing what needed to be undone and he was shuddering helplessly as she wrapped one hand around him and teased the tip of erection with the thumb of her other hand. A swift flick of a fingernail across the opening almost brought him over the edge.

"You weren't the only one ... experimenting, Severus," she murmured into the stillness.

He had just enough presence of mind to retort "Thankfully," and drag her to the bed. If she had done any more experimentation, he was likely to end up on his knees - and that could be painful, on a stone floor.

They tumbled onto the covers, an entwined chaos of limbs as they sought each other and themselves; mouths met mouths, skin pressed against skin, the air warm and heavy with gasps and moans. At first they played, each teasing the other with the knowledge accumulated over six months - Snape slid two fingers swiftly into Hermione, twisting and turning in the slick heat to find the spot ... that spot ... and Hermione arched against him with a sudden cry as she came apart in his arms.

"That's not fair ... oh god, it felt good ..." she gasped as he held her, shuddering and apparently boneless, in his arms. He pushed her hair back from her face with one hand, staring down at her and trying to memorise this moment, this expression. If once was all he would have, once would have to do forever. Snape focussed all his attention on the details, the heat in her face and the deep relaxation in her eyes, as she sprawled across the bed in an uninhibited abandon. He knew she was still pulsing slightly inside, the feeling almost tangible in his memory, a delicious after-shock of sensation.

Her hand on him again brought him back to his own arousal and his picture of her clicked, burnt into his memory. He would drag it out on cold nights in the middle of nowhere in later years and remember and, for a moment, like himself again.

A sudden shift and abrupt heat; she had taken him ... oh ... her mouth open around him and the heat and wet touch of her tongue; and in all that, what almost undid him was the delight in her eyes. She had been paying more attention than he thought when he had done this to her, with the deft touch of tongue, lips and teeth ... and her hands, cupping him and pressing ... there. Just ... uhhhh ... please ... where the hell had she learnt to do that?!

"Hermione," he gasped, pulling her up against him, pushing against her as she pressed into him. "Where ... no ... I don't want to know, but thank you ..."

Then words were impossible as she - he - they - he wasn't sure who moved first but he was over her and in her and ... and he had hadn't known, couldn't have imagined, just exactly how this felt; nothing but Hermione, and the two of them together, and the focus of sensation on the hot sheath of muscles clenching and rippling against him as he pushed into her.

He stilled ... he had to, or this would be over before it had even begun. Hermione's arms stole around his neck, not urging but simply connecting as he looked down at her. Her eyes opened, meeting his, and he involuntarily pushed further into her at the heat there. They held still again, the only movement between them hidden as she held him. "Feels good, doesn't it?" she asked in a voice thick with emotion and arousal. Snape could do no more than nod; the present and past fused together in his mind and memory, and he felt her around him and in him ... both sides, now.

And that was the last thing either of them thought for a while; recollection and reality took them past restraint and they tumbled headlong into a maelstrom of soft urgings, groans stifled as Snape buried his face in Hermione's shoulder, shudders and encouragement as they finally drew together. Dark fell outside as they committed to separation.

__

Oh and this was everything that she could have wanted. Touch and feel, pressure and release, ebb and flow; the sensations crowding over and around and inside her. His mouth and his hands on her, teasing, pulling, exploring - was this what it had felt like for him, this overwhelming sense of completeness? And the taste of him, nipping, sucking, targeting those points that made him buck and shake under her tongue; the half-choked sounds, individually incoherent, but a comprehensible whole. She wanted to remember this moment; capturing his face in her mind, the unguarded look of near anguish as he pushed into her, feeling - knowing - the depth of his control, remembering the tightness and the softness and the warmth. Then the friction took her, exploding outwards into her and he buried his head in her shoulder, arching and stiffening as she ran her hands over him, memorising the planes and contours this one last time.

She rocked her pelvis, instinctively wanting to draw him as far into her as she could, imprinting him on the deepest part of her, improbably wanting to mark that one moment into her muscle memory, to be retrieved at need, at times of wanting, when this would be a half-recollected fantasy, a shadow in the hinterlands of possibility. His muffled sounds vibrated against her skin and she didn't want this to end, wanted to remain at that point of balance, in that instant before the world broke apart, outside time, where only they had meaning.

But the instinct that made her want to stop time, urged it forward beyond her control. Mouth and hands and mind and heart came together and then broke apart in the barely articulated syllables of his name.

Afterwards, she held him, not wanting to miss any least scrap of the experience, fighting the desire to drowsing - there would be time enough for sleep in the days to come. She didn't have the luxury of lazing in an afterglow laced with the knowledge that there was more to come. She traced her fingers across his skin, aide-memoire rather then foreplay. His hand covered her, stilling the touch. His fingers laced into hers and drew her hand to his mouth, pressing it against his lips, tongue tasting at the tips. She closed her eyes; she was clearly not the only one stockpiling memories.

She moved her hand to caress his cheek, the angles familiar to her after months of shaving.

"If things were different," she murmured, "if it wasn't for Voldemort ...."

"If it wasn't for Voldemort," he agreed.

"I just didn't want you to think that, I mean ...," she trailed off, feeling that something needed to be said and again not certain how to begin. Maybe she should take his earlier advice to just say it. "I want you," she stated bluntly.

It was not quite what was in her mind, but the other would make the situation too difficult.

She felt the muscles of his face move under her hand and knew that he was smiling.

"I had noticed that you appeared to," he said rather dryly, but she thought his voice had an unusual roughness to it. "And in case you were in any doubt about it, I want you too."

She rather thought that he had side-stepped as she had; to avoid adding another overt complication to the situation. Or perhaps she was just projecting her own feelings onto a simple statement. In any event it hardly mattered now. She lay there a moment longer, knowing that the time had come, that there would never be a point at which this would be easy. She drew her hand away from his face.

"I should go," she said reluctantly.

Snape drew back a little from her.

"Yes," he agreed quietly. "I think that you should."

She sat up and slid off the bed. Silently, she began to retrieve her clothes and get dressed. Movement on the edge of her vision told her that Snape was doing the same thing. She was thankful for that; thankful that she didn't have to see him sprawled naked across the covers, bearing the traces of their lovemaking. When she next looked at him he was dressed, face impassive, Snape-persona firmly in place. Only the shadowing of his eyes recalled the man she had been with only a short time ago.

It was time to go back. The storm of passion had passed, leaving her curiously calm and dry eyed.

"What about my studies?" she asked. His eyebrow raised; a quirk that gave her a pang and no doubt always would. "I don't mean classes," she clarified. "What about the project?"

"I see no reason for you not continue with your full academic studies," he said flatly. "Although, much of the writing up can be done in the library, I will still be expecting you to complete the practical aspects." His tone softened a little. "It would be highly out of character for you not to finish your project. However, our dealings must remain strictly those of student and teacher."

As she watched him, the mask slipped just a little, just enough to allow a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Friends of sorts then. In a very appropriate kind of way. It would just have to be enough.

And with that it was done. There were no histrionics, no tears, no last minute embraces or declarations. Just understanding.

She nodded slowly and turned to leave.

"In that case, Professor Snape, I will see you in the Potions Room tomorrow evening."

--

Quick now, here, now, always - a condition of complete simplicity (costing not less than everything) and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well when the tongues of flame are in-folded into the crowned knot of fire and the fire and the rose are one.

T.S.Eliot - Little Gidding.

Severus Snape and Hermione Granger will return ...