I Love Thee True[1]
Hermione falls asleep wishing very much not to wake anymore. Feverish, she tosses and turns until she drifts off into nightmare-fantasies.
She recognises the vision instantly. Bewitching as belladonna, thrilling as thornapple — and as terrible. Hogwarts, of course.
It’s winter. The hills rise cold around her, the heather withered. The towers of Hogwarts loom grey above the lake. So close, yet out of reach.
Movement at the edge of the forest makes her start. A black figure emerges from the trees, glides towards her.
“La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)
Severus.
With his hair grown so long, and his black eyes blazing, he looks like a wild creature of the forest, fey.
‘Come,’ he says, ‘come with me.’
His voice is soft as faery-song and as spell-binding as Imperius. He takes her hand and leads her off into the Forbidden Forest, to that sheltered meadow of memory, where Lily brought him once, accepted his gifts and claimed him as hers…
It makes Hermione uncomfortable to take Lily’s place, even in a dream. She doesn’t want to be Lily, or Lily’s replacement. But if this is necessary to banish the demon of a dead woman, so be it.
Then she can’t think anymore, because Severus begins to undress her, slipping down the straps of her nightie, brushing lips along her jaw, down to the hollow at her throat, to her breasts.
When she’s naked, he steps back and inhales softly, his gaze intense as he studies her form. Hermione knows she’s stockier than Lily was. But when Severus licks his lips and swallows hard, for once she’s thankful for her curves.
Without hesitation, Severus shrugs out of his robes.
Three steps, and they stand skin to skin. Silky heat, he pulses against her stomach. Desire sizzles through her, tingles moist between her thighs.
‘Come,’ he repeats. Hands slide over her breasts, down her sides, circling her waist, trailing the triangle at the apex of her thighs —
He turns her around. One hand, pressed under her breasts, holds her against him, while the other plays with her, fingers tracing, dipping —
Two fingers deep inside, the pad of his thumb on that very spot, she writhes —
And feels his smirk against her throat as he withdraws his fingers, bringing them up, to smell, to taste —
‘Like honey,’ he whispers. ‘Like dew.’
Her legs weaken and he lets her to slide to the ground, but only to cover her with his body.
He slides into her, his breath hot against her throat, and commands: ‘Come! Come for me!’
She does. She convulses so violently that tears spring to her eyes, pleasure so intense it’s akin to pain. He feels the same; eyes squeezed shut, moisture leaks from their corners.
Afterwards, she lies across him and kisses his tears away.
‘Why do you love me?’ he asks.
Her heart skips a beat, the shock an icy rush through her veins: he knows!
Everything she could say whirls and swirls through her mind. There’s so much: I love you because you’re wicked smart, I love you because of your dreary black humour, because of your unfailing sense of honour, because you’re a right bastard sometimes, because of your strange tenderness even when I’m hanging over the toilet puking my guts out, because —
‘Just because you are you, I guess.’
He stares at her as if she’s spoken a language he doesn’t understand. At last he mutters, ‘I gave her perfume. But for you, I’d create a whole perfume shop.’
‘A shop!’ Hermione cries. ‘That’s it! We’ll open a shop!’
When she wakes, she finds herself naked in bed and entwined with Severus.
[1] All references to LBDSM by Keats are entirely intentional.
I had planned to write my comments for this act at the end, but this chapter is so sweet and so well written, I had to tell you. The evolution of Severus Snape from fellow outcast to reluctant housemate to surprised lover is beautifully chronicled. Well done!
Beth
The way you write of the love between Hermione and Severus is so gentle yet they are both very much in character. I like it very uch.
Beth
I’m glad that they have found such happiness in the world they have built for themselves. That they have a son and daughter is especially sweet.
Beth
“Harry refuses to accept it was too late even before their seven years were over. He vows to move heaven and earth to find a cure.”
This sounds ominous. Does it mean that the seven years of exile was actually a death sentence? How damned sad. But so beautifully written, Juno.
Beth
Where is Hermione? Has she already died? How is it that you can write such bittersweet prose, yet make my heart glad for them at the same time.
Love is like that, yes.
Beth
Oh, my word! This journey has been one of healing and crying and giving thanks for the blessings that were granted and railing against the ones that were not granted. But I’ll wager that the fulfilling life that Hermione and Severus Snape made for themselves and their children was more perfect than any of their magical contemporaries were able to make for themselves.
This is why you are a master, Juno, pure and simple. Thank you for this. I have loved every page!
Warmest regards,
Beth
Another amazing story.