Chapters 161-170

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream…

(Part 1 of “To Sleep, Perchance to Dream…Alone”)

Hermione couldn’t sleep.

That was nothing new. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep, unburdened by existential fears and sorrows. Just to sleep, and perchance to dream…

But she dozed fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness, never falling fully asleep, never quite waking. Whenever she grew more aware of herself and the man at her side, she had to force herself not to cling to him as if she was drowning.

And that was probably what finally woke her in the small hours of morning.

From one moment to the next she was wide awake. Her heart was racing, her eyes burnt with unshed tears, and her breath came in painful gasps.

But there was more.

The soft fabric of bed-clothes washed a hundred times too often caressed sensitive nipples and made them prickle. Gradually, the tingling deepened into a dull throb of desire that pulsed on the verge of pain deep within her breasts. She didn’t have to touch the soft skin between her legs to know that she was wet with need.

Still there was more.

That strange, intense longing for those glittering black eyes focused on her. That almost painful desire to sense those thin lips smirking against her throat. This indescribable hunger to feel those crooked teeth lightly nipping at the sensitive skin of her breasts.

The irresistible urge to feel him within her.

The almost inconceivable, irrational idea that there was really such a thing as ‘the love of your life’.

She could feel her pulse in her throat. She shuddered, but not because she was cold. She balled her hands into fists to keep from touching him and stroking him, in the hope of waking him, to renewed ardour and desire…It must be those days of the month, Hermione concluded. The days when nature forces a woman to want, to need; a completely natural desire, a biological drive easily explained. Just the urge to procreate. Nothing more, nothing less.

But that safe, rational explanation did not diminish the excruciating, existential need that hummed over her skin and thrummed within her bones.

How is it possible to need someone like this? she wondered. It’s as if I’m an addict, and he’s the only thing that keeps me alive. Oh God, how am I going to exist without him?

She was not a spontaneous person. She preferred planning ahead. She was Hermione of the colour-coded timetables.

But she was no longer that Hermione, that Hermione Granger.

She was Hermione Snape now.

And calendars, along with fate, and a foreseeable future didn’t appear to synch well with Severus Snape.

She sat up, grabbed her nightshirt, drew the fabric up, along her sides, over her arms and head and dropped it next to the bed. Naked, she rolled towards her husband. The sight of his nose of all things made her eyes burn again.

Instead, she dove for his lips.

Hermione had anticipated that he’d be awake instantly. She knew him well enough by now to be aware of at least some of his idiosyncrasies.

She was not prepared for the darkening desire and understanding that glistened in the black depths of his eyes.

He opened his lips to her and met her tongue with a hunger that matched hers. His hands, those long, clever fingers, found her hips, caressed the edges of bones that stood out too harshly (she would eat more if only she could summon more of an appetite), travelled upwards; waist, stomach, ribs, until he reached her breasts. He cupped them and pressed against them, gently, insistently. He did not tease her nipples but with slow, steady pressure fuelled a need that went far deeper than the delighted squeals that superficial attentions would elicit. Only when she helplessly pushed herself against him, with her whole body now, he inclined his head to—to—feast on her breasts, was the verb her dazed brain supplied. There were kisses and teasing teeth and a twirling tongue and always the steady, insistent pressure of his hands, his body against hers…

Still it wasn’t enough.

She felt him against her stomach, so much hotter than the rest of his body, so much smoother. For a moment she felt forcibly reminded of the silk similes she’d come across in all too many romance novels. They were, she decided, not too far off the mark.

‘Please,’ she hissed and nudged him with her hips.

Severus stayed her with a swift slide of calloused palms down her sides onto her hip bones and moved on top of her.

Without a word he seemed to know what she needed and simply, slowly, slid inside her, deeper and deeper, until he filled her completely, anchored her, sustained her.

Her head tilted backwards. The sound of her moan drifted back to her in time with his lips.

Then he started moving within her.

Deliberately, inexorably.

He held her. Arms next to hers, hands at her shoulders, fingers pressing into her flesh as he surged into her, withdrew, thrust, slid away…

‘Harder,’ she pleaded, her voice so hoarse she barely recognised it.

‘Hush,’ he chastised her, the sound so soft, so silky that her skin shivered with goosebumps.

She arched her body toward him in a silent plea. And to her surprise he gave in, with a deep, guttural grunt, and shoved himself inside her more forcefully. Hermione gasped, winced, but still she wanted more. The slight, sharp edge of pain was perfect—just enough to make it real, to make her feel alive. Once more sweat mingled with tears. The fusion of their bodies chased away all rational thought. All hope. Every fear.

His mouth fastened to her collarbone until she felt his teeth. He thrust inside her until she felt his rhythm pounding in her spine.

Only then it was enough.

She came in a pulsing wave of mutual need and shared desire.

‘Thank you,’ she breathed and—at long last—fell asleep.

oooOooo

---

oooOooo

…Alone

The tears came while she was dreaming, although it wasn’t much of a dream. She was walking through a landscape of dull white clouds. That was all. There were no monsters, no Death Eaters, no snakes, and no screams.

She was alone in the fog.

That was all.

oooOooo

‘Hermione,’ a warm voice murmured into her ear. ‘Hermione, wake up! It’s just a dream. Shhh, wake up.’

Gentle fingers stroked over her cheeks, and she blinked her eyes open. Severus’ hand curled around her jaw, his fingertips tenderly smoothing away the wetness of her tears. His eyes were bright. For once she could glimpse a subtle difference between iris and pupil. His hair clung to his skull, sleek and dishevelled. The dark stubble of beard smudged his pale skin.

‘It was just a dream,’ he repeated. His hand drifted over her face, down to her chin. His thumb rubbed softly over her lower lip.

‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I’m awake now.’

‘Good.’ Wrapping an arm around her, he lay back and drew her closer to his body, until she was curled up in the crook of his arm. His other hand wandered back to her, tracing the outline of her face, playing with her curls. ‘What was the dream about?’

Hermione frowned and squinted her eyes. Then she shook her head a little, a movement that allowed her to draw her cheek over his chest and inhale the warm scent of his body. ‘I’m not sure. It wasn’t even a nightmare. Not really.’

‘But you were crying.’

She buried her face in the soft fabric of his nightshirt. ‘I was alone in that dream.’

Severus tightened his hold on her. She could feel his sigh. It flowed through his body, his arms, right into her.

‘One way or another,’ he promised. ‘I will come back.’

oooOooo

She didn’t say how that wasn’t enough for her.

oooOooo

‘How was it to grow up here?’ Hermione asked. ‘You know almost everything there is to know about me. But even though we’ve been married for months, I don’t really know all that much about you. Except for the things we rehearsed for the trial. And that was a bit…technical. Like swotting for an exam.’

From the corner of her eye she saw his thin lips twitch into a grin. ‘Hermione, the professional bookworm of Hogwarts, complaining about an exam situation?’

Another sigh. His hand abandoned her curls, and he laid his forearm over his brows, shielding his eyes. She bit down on her lip, exasperated at herself for destroying the mellow mood of the morning. ‘I’m sorry, Severus. I…from the memories you gave Harry—I guess that is not a particularly pleasant topic for you. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘Hmpf.’ The arm moved, and Severus irritably smoothed his hair away from his face. ‘No. You’re right, I don’t like to talk about…my childhood. My life.’ She propped herself up on an elbow in time to see a wry smile tug at his mouth. ‘Myself.’ He regarded her calmly, his eyes completely black again and inscrutable. Again his hand came up to stroke her curls. ‘But you have the right to ask me unpleasant questions. And Lois insists that it would do me good to talk about my past.’

‘It’s a Muggle thing,’ Hermione explained. ‘Psychologists believe that getting things off your mind helps.’

‘Not only psychologists,’ he commented, hooking his index-finger through a particularly long and tangled corkscrew-curl. ‘The Church, too. That’s how confession works.’

‘Abbé Rigaud.’

‘Hmmm.’

Hermione shifted until she lay next to Severus. She knew that he preferred to have lots of personal space to think. But this morning he surprised her by drawing her back into his embrace.

‘Well, you already know that my mother was a witch and my father a Muggle.’

‘And that your mother’s mother was a Muggle, too.’

‘You remember that?’ He sounded surprised.

She nodded, rubbing her nose against him.

‘No tickling!’

She grinned. ‘You told me on our wedding day. When we talked about the symbolism of the flowers. Is that book still here?’

‘It should be.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Well. As I said, my mother’s mother, Abigayle Foster, was a Muggle. The illegitimate daughter of the factory-manager. Apparently he had a soft spot for her as she was his only daughter, born late in his life. An old man’s folly.’

Hearing the self-deprecating smirk in Severus’ words, Hermione raised her head and frowned at her husband. ‘You aren’t old.’

‘Almost twenty years older than you are, little one.’ He had the nerve to tap the tip of her nose with his index-finger. ‘Among Muggles that’s enough to make me a fool.’

‘We’re not Muggles,’ Hermione protested. ‘And besides, it was my idea.’

‘Indeed.

‘Fool or not, at least my great-grandfather took care of Abigayle as far as it was possible in those days. Eventually, she married—as you may have guessed—a wizard. However, she died giving birth to my mother. And her husband soon followed her.

‘My great-grandfather tried to do right by his granddaughter. He must have known that his daughter’s husband was a wizard. He may even have suspected that Eileen would be a witch, too. Maybe there was some manifestation of magic at her birth. Traumatic events can cause such things even that early in life.

‘As my mother’s Muggle grandmother had also died, my great-grandfather asked the parents of my mother’s father to move here. Being wizards, they were still healthy and hale at their advanced age. They were given a small house on the grounds of the mill. Officially, my grandfather’s father was employed as caretaker. But the point was to provide a home and parents for my mother.’

‘And your father?’

‘He worked at the mill.’ Severus stiffened, relaxed again. Obviously, his father was a difficult topic for him. ‘He was a smart man. I’m still not sure if he was too smart, or not smart enough in the end.’