Archive of Our Own

Hermione looked around her personal carrel in the great Ca' da Luna wizarding library with satisfaction. A month ago the Librarian had welcomed her generously and enthusiastically, and provided her with the most convenient, comfortable and attractive working space at his disposal. Her flying visit there from her post in Milan, when Venice had requested emergency aid with the Red Book of Trebizond, had got her this position with no effort at all. Ca' da Luna had done all the wooing, and Milan's Ambrogiano Library had yielded her with jealous reluctance, though she had completed all the tasks for which they employed her. Summer in Venice was delightful, though she was not so sure about winter, with its rough weather from the Adriatic.

These days it was very pleasant to know that her employers expected her to undertake her own research in their libraries, as well as to bind their books. They gave her a liberal allowance of time for it, and any specialist assistance she asked for. Her scholarly articles about obscure but interesting books, published in wizarding world journals with small but select circulation lists, usually brought new readers to a library.

It was worth the effort to imbue her articles with their own translation spells. Hermione found that learning one new European language a year was quite sufficient. The language acquisition spells laid her out with a headache for nearly a week every time. While her brain dealt with the mass of new data, her body struggled to fight off the fever that intense activity created. It helped if she already had some grasp of the grammar and a minimal vocabulary, as she had with Italian. Each time she needed to hire some young mediwitch to care for her. She could have used translation spells like most people, but even that first year in Paris, with a little French learned on holidays and rather more from books, she had found the translation unsatisfactory. She had enough trouble communicating with people without being betrayed by a charm.

Dear Maître Thomas had paid for the first language spell for her. They were terribly expensive, because they were tailored to the individual user. He had ensured it was the speech of literate Paris she acquired, not that of the provinces, despite himself coming from the wildest parts of the Pyrenees. He was a snob, but Hermione acknowledged that so was she: when it came to work, only the best would do. What a fortunate meeting that had been among the bookstalls by the Seine. The elderly wizard found the young girl just out of school, listened to her coaxing the great book to open and let her read, and had been astonished to see the book yield to her, however reluctantly. The stall-keeper had muttered excitedly - perhaps he had found a buyer - but Maître Thomas had hushed him, and lured Hermione into conversation.

Two hours later he had a new apprentice, she had a life again, and the book had found a real master whom it obeyed. It had not been the safest book to coax, Hermione later realised. However, the old man anxious for a successor in his profession of wandering bookbinder had taught her how to do such things comfortably and securely, delighted with her attention to detail, her persistence, and her instinctive grasp of the necessary spells, which could not be taught.

A couple of years ago Maître Thomas had retired to his Pyrenean fastness, with his books, his goats, and the old-fashioned clay pipe in which he smoked some strange herb that always made her head spin, even on the other side of the room. He could smoke it as much as he liked now.

Every year Hermione went back to Paris for a few weeks, to ensure none of the spells had frayed, to renew protections, to advise on the handling of purchases kept securely until her coming. There were a few other itinerant bookbinders the wizarding libraries of Europe could call upon, but she was by far the youngest, and it had been made clear to her that it was her duty not just to seek out an apprentice to train in her later years, but to teach as many as she could find throughout her working life. She already knew from the experience of others that there would be few; she had never found anyone trainable in seven years. Perhaps she should go back to Hogwarts and look its children over.

And maybe she wouldn't. Professor Snape was still there, after all. No doubt he still glided down the corridors, robes swirling menacingly, eyes burning cold, silky voice devastating every creature he encountered except perhaps Mrs Norris. And of course Professor McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore was not there to coax him into civilised behaviour any more. She corresponded with Ginny, whose brother Charlie, recovered from his war wounds, now taught Care of Magical Creatures as it should be taught. Ginny said that at least Snape's temper did not explode like gunpowder sensing a spark twenty feet away, now the war was long over and he, like all the other fighters, had had a chance to settle into calm and security. Just as she had done. She wondered, idly, if he had time to wash his hair more frequently these days, then rebuked herself for thinking about him at all. There was no point in raking over old wounds, opening them yet again.

Hermione stared up at the blue sky visible through her high clerestory windows and tried not to nibble her lip, even as her eyes went blank and her mind worried at memories as a tongue worries at a sore tooth, with much the same effect.

They had all been high on exhaustion and exhilaration. Harry, Snape and Dumbledore, working in concert, had trapped Voldemort after a bitter battle that cost many lives that could not be spared. They had killed him, then ground body and magical essence to powder, then burned it. Hermione could still see those oily flames, smell that nauseating smoke. It was days before most of Dumbledore's supporters understood that effort had drained his resources. By then all of them were dealing with the aftermath. Hermione had spent that time weeping and raging in her Head Girl's room, mourning for all those she had lost, but even more hating and longing for Severus Snape, and despising herself for still wanting him after everything he had said.

Off the battlefield, leaving the Aurors and Hit Wizard squads to round up the wounded and surrendering Death Eaters, Hermione had joyfully flung herself at Snape, ignoring minor damage and the stink of battle magic on both of them.

"We've won! You did it, together! You and Harry got it right. Isn't it wonderful?"

She wound her arms around his neck, disregarding the way his lean body stiffened as she pressed close. She would never match his height, but she could stand on tiptoe and reach his mouth, kissing him, heedless of his hands gripping her shoulders, until he pushed her back a little.

"You want this?"

He sounded suspicious, but there was a fire lit somewhere deep in the banked coals of his eyes.

"Of course I do! We're free! You're free!"

The fire blazed up. "Yes," he muttered, and pulled her close again, "we're alive." He sounded dazed.

There was nothing dazed about his mouth on hers, or the way his hands slid down her spine, pressing all the way, until they settled on her arse and seized on it, pulling her in so close that she could feel him against her belly. If she had been thinking, Hermione might have regretted she was so much shorter than he; instead she rose up on her toes again and canted her hips to try to catch and cradle him. She wasn't even astonished at how easy all this was proving to be.

His mouth was warm, the thin lips surprisingly soft, the tongue prying her lips apart was eager, and she followed his lead gladly, learning how sweetly intoxicating mouth to mouth could be, so much better than dabbing kisses all over what she could reach of his face.

She shifted her own grip on him so that she could feel him through his clothes, and was deeply interested in the shape and feel of his arse, narrow, firm, quite unlike her own, with a fascinating dip just above it that she wanted to touch with nothing between her hands and his skin. There was a lot more of him to explore. Wiry shoulders and back, the wings of his shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine, the slight curve of his hip with its bone that jutted out so much more prominently than hers, his long thighs. Under her hands his whole body felt quite uncushioned, stripped down to essentials, and she wanted his robes off now so she could see and truly touch.

Easier wished for than attained. It wasn't as if she could push under his robes as she could have done with a man who wore sensible shirts and pullovers like her father; grabbing a handful and tugging got her nowhere. She made an exasperated sound in his mouth and he grunted enquiringly, without ever unsealing their lips. She gave up for the moment, lacing her hands behind him to keep him right where he was.

That was starting to feel very good; his heat was spreading to her body, the secret place between her legs was wet, not just damp, and hot, even though she could not bring him to her. Experimentally she rubbed against him, then did it again when he groaned appreciatively. Maybe she could do that for herself too. She moved her feet apart, spread her legs. Instantly he nudged between them. She wrapped herself around one of those long thighs and rubbed and pressed, rising and falling against him.

Oh yes. That was just fine. Some satisfaction achieved, Hermione stopped thinking at all and simply felt, felt that wonderful heat rising up through her body, felt her breasts swell and harden, pressing against his chest. The tips felt like sensitive diamonds, impossibly hard, incredibly tender. Rubbing a nipple against him, even with all that cloth in between, so that all she touched was schoolgirl cotton, was like striking sparks with flint. Only these sparks did not just blaze for a moment. They grew into tiny fires, hot and dry, that somehow united with her wet centre, encouraging that different heat. When she could touch him would the conflagration strip her down to bare bones? She moaned into his mouth, impatient to fly loose, free of earth, borne up like a moth by her burning wings, needing nothing more.

Severus was rocking against her, his penis feeling extraordinarily hard against her tummy, and very big, too, but she was above worrying about logistics just now. It all felt good, and it was going to go right on doing so. He was wonderful. They were wonderful.

Severus proved that by taking one hand off her behind and bringing it between them. He seemed to be aiming for the fastenings of her robes, but was distracted by her left breast. His fingers closed around it for a moment, then his hand cupped it, pressing upward, grinding her nipple into his palm. Hermione bit his lower lip. He didn't seem to care, but started biting on her lip, rather more gently than she had treated him, while his hand squeezed her rhythmically. His hand was large enough, or her breast small enough, that his spread fingers could enclose her almost entirely. No need to worry about the size of her breasts, then; they fitted just right.

Eventually Severus got back to his original goal, and fumbled at her robes again. She wasn't going to take her hands off him to get out her wand to help him, though that would make sense. He managed alone. He must have had practice undoing buttons one-handed, without using his eyes, while pressed against another body. At last he pushed her robes off her shoulders. Her blouse came away much more quickly. Hermione wasn't wearing a bra; Lavender and Parvati had taught her the charms witches used to protect sensitive breasts from buffeting - she hardly needed a charm to hold them up.

By now there was enough space between their bodies that she could work on his clothing. He wore more than she did, and everything was obsessively buttoned up, but he muttered, "Touch the tab inside my collar."

She slid her fingers inside the collar high against his throat and found it, after allowing herself to stroke his Adam's apple and the hollow with its thudding pulse. Suddenly his robes were open. That was neat. Something her dormitory mates had missed. After that it was just a matter of finding that useful little tab. He didn't wear trousers, just long undergarments, something like Channel swimmers had worn nearly a hundred years ago, but of much finer material, soft to her fingers. She stroked him through them before she went looking for the tab. He made a soft choking sound, so she did it again, then cupped him in her fingers.

In strangled tones quite unlike his usual silky voice he gasped, "Stop! Don't waste it. I want to come inside you, not in your hand."

So he wasn't just teasing her with possibilities. She really was going to have him. Have her own man, and he was going to have her.

Hermione hastened to get his remaining garments off him, awkward though it was when he was tugging her panties down her legs at the same time.

Severus seized her shoulders again and held her off, but he wanted to look, not to complain. She was glad of the chance to see him, pale skin with long bones and slim muscles under it, the skin marked, far too much, by scars, some so thin and pale they must be very old, but others quite new. There was a burn on the side of his neck, she noticed, hoping she hadn't rubbed it raw with her embrace. Black fur lightly coated his chest, but the hair on his forearms and thighs was surprisingly light, unlike the nest his penis sprang from, arrogantly upright, peering up at her with its red eye, quivering a very little as if unable to restrain itself. Oh dear. Her reading told her they would fit, so she refused to think about it, preferring to enjoy what she had now.

She astonished herself by reaching out to touch it, and was more astonished to find it hot, and velvety-skinned, heavy in her hand. She explored it cautiously with fingertips and thumb. He made a soft sound, then lifted his hands to her breasts, cupping them, rubbing the nipples with his thumbs. It almost but not quite hurt; she could hear herself breathing more loudly, in time with his movements. His nipples were tight brown buttons of flesh set in small, flat areolas. Quite unlike hers. These differences were good, exciting. She started to play with his nipples, and heard him hiss. They must be as sensitive as hers.

"Lie down with me," he said, and he must be in control of himself again, in spite of that penis eyeing her off, because this was the Snape-voice she had known for years, like tearing silk. The visceral thrill this time was quite different, though her stomach still quivered to hear it.

He took her hand and tugged.

At last looking at something other than him, Hermione's excitement ebbed into something like dismay. She wanted him, but on the edge of a battlefield? There were no bodies anywhere near, no one observing them, but the thought of someone stumbling over them when they were coupled together… She shuddered. That was a far worse turn-off than wondering how on earth she was to get that thing inside her.

"Here?" If her voice had not been so faint, it would have been a squeak.

Classroom-Snape came back with a bang. He said, sounding irritated, "Can you remember nothing, Miss Granger? How recently was it that Filius was teaching your terribly secret duelling club - hah! - about the Mushroom?"

Oh. Yes. Thank heavens. Better put a stop to that attitude, though. She didn't think she wanted to make love with a man who bitched at her for each tiny mistake of ignorance.

"I need my wand," she said, diving for it, and cast the spell for the protective, concealing dome with no further ado.

It dutifully formed around them. It dimmed the sunlight very slightly, but while they could see out, no one could see in, and no one could walk through the walls of air, either.

"Very good," he said grudgingly.

Her turn to make demands. "Cast a contraceptive charm, please," she said briskly.

That wasn't something Hermione had previously felt obliged to learn, and it hadn't been on Poppy Pomfrey's curriculum for the sixth and seventh year girls, either, though she had heard various people - Ravenclaws and Slytherins, mostly - exchanging different versions.

He summoned his wand from the folds of his robes with an elegant hand movement; the ability made her wildly envious. Harry could do that, but no amount of trying would enable her to.

His charm was rather more complex than she expected; committing the words to memory, she wondered what else it did.

He lifted the wand again, and on the ground beside him a heap of mismatched pillows appeared. All they had in common was size and softness. Hermione giggled. Who was missing pillows, and would they ever know where they had been?

He seemed to think the giggle was appreciation; the tight lines of his face eased again and he smiled a little.

"A quilt, to keep them in place?" she suggested.

He nodded. The quilt he summoned was probably from his own bed, a dark green cotton, quite elaborately stitched, though otherwise unornamented. That pleased her, as a foretaste of what she could have with him later.

"Now!" he said, tossing his wand aside, and twitching hers out of her hand with another of those powerful gestures. They landed together on his robes, she noticed. She wasn't too happy about having her wand taken like that, but she could speak to him about manners later. Right now she was going to pay attention to the most important things.

He seemed to be similarly focussed. He stepped up to her, caged her in one arm and tilted up her chin with the other. "Come to bed, Miss Granger."

Hermione nearly said, 'Oooh, you are so masterful!' but stopped herself. She didn't think Severus Snape could take being laughed at, certainly not by a lover, not now and maybe not ever.

She was feeling happy and light and confident again, so she leaned up and kissed his mouth, sliding her arms around him.

He pulled back after a moment, murmuring, "No more distractions."

His penis hard against her reminded her much more strongly that there were other things to be doing.

Then they were side by side on the quilt, and if the ground was uneven the pillows smoothed it sufficiently.

Severus put his hand between her legs, pushing gently, so she opened for him. He stroked her outer lips, then slipped one finger between them, finding and chasing the wetness, spreading it. His face was intent now, concentrating on what he was doing, and she lifted on one elbow to watch too. That felt quite different from doing it for herself. How strange. It was exactly the same, really, though he was exploring with a confidence it had taken her a while to learn. He had no hesitation in pressing that finger deeper into her, either, and involuntarily she contracted around him.

"Yes. Just like that." He shifted abruptly onto his back. "You're quite small; mount me."

She had read about that, of course, and looked at the diagrams carefully, but she had not expected to be invited to do it now. But it was all a journey into the unknown, so she knelt on either side of his thighs and lowered herself until she could brush against that waiting penis, reminding herself that it was tender as well as hard. He seemed to like that. Kneeling wasn't going to give her a lot of control of her movements, though, and she wanted to take this slowly. His idea was a good one. Hermione shifted so that she crouched flat-footed over him, took him in her hands, and carefully lowered herself.

He made a noise that compounded impatience and interest, but she didn't allow herself to be hurried. It wasn't difficult introducing him into herself at first, then as she pressed lower, hearing him groan softly, seeing his eyes close tight, it suddenly became much more difficult. Stubbornly she pressed on, and was past the barrier. It wasn't very comfortable, but Hermione Granger had great faith in books, so she kept going until he was fully inside her. Then she had to rest for a few seconds, but after that she lifted, not as slowly as she had come down, and began to move on him.

His hips bucked sharply. Maybe he wanted her to go faster. That seemed manageable, now, and as she did so she was delighted to feel that deep interest come back, and then intensify. Soon enough she seemed to be moving fast enough to please him, going all the way down then rising, returning, with each plunge feeling their combined heat grow. He gripped her hips, but not hard, as if to compel her; it was more as if he meant to support her.

To guide her too, she soon discovered, then to hold her in place while he began to move almost violently, thrusting upwards into her. Oh. Oh yes.

She heard herself chanting softly, "Yes, Severus! Oh please, faster, it's going to happen, I know it is…"

Even so the wave that rolled over her came from nowhere. It did not douse the fires. They continued to burn unchecked as the wave knocked her forward onto his chest, her hands slipping until they caught on his shoulders, and the wave and the fires were one thing, and she was burning up altogether, and drowning, and that was impossible, and absolutely marvellous, and oh that was so much better than ever before.

She heard his muffled shout, felt his hands pinning her as he thrust harder than ever and he released himself into her, flooding her with heat. A faint memory of previous encouragement led her to contract her muscles around him as she had done before. He groaned, deep and long, so she went on doing it, in time with his remaining rhythmic thrusts, until they died away completely.

Hermione sighed with satisfaction, pleased with both of them, and let herself puddle over his body. If she was too heavy he could push her off, but for such a bony man he was comfortable to lie on. A little while later she amended that. Not comfortable, exactly, but right.

When they shifted neither spoke, but Hermione still felt deeply content. He twitched his wand to him and muttered a charm she did not catch, and suddenly she was no longer damp with her own moisture, or his stickily drying semen, or their sweat. That was convenient, but she felt as if he was distancing them with the cleaning charm.

She sat up, willing to give him more room, and he sat too, drawing his knees up in front of him as if he wished for privacy, though he did not reach for his robes. What a funny thing to do. Unsure of the conventions, she obligingly changed her position. She bent her knees and tucked her legs sideways, heels neatly pressed against her behind, sitting on the ground like a lady as her mother had long ago taught her to do.

He still said nothing. Perhaps he wasn't sure what came next. Perhaps he hadn't thought it as good as she had. She would improve with practice, though, she told herself stoutly. She would learn what pleased him. There were some things it would be pleasant if he learned about her, too.

Then he did speak. His voice was cool, totally controlled. "Thank you, Miss Granger. That was - satisfying. Stupid of us, when you're still my student, but you've learned a good deal of discretion in recent years. You do understand it would be unfortunate for both of us if you spoke of this? I shan't, of course, you may depend on that."

Ow. That was quite a speech. What was he worried about, that she would plaster herself thoughtlessly against him in the Potions classroom in the remaining couple of weeks of her last term, too impatient to be sensible?

She said tentatively. "I didn't think about being teacher and student, I just wanted to be with you, to know we were both alive, and safe, and had good things to look forward to at last. I won't embarrass you, I promise, or do anything that would risk your job. I can see we need to wait," she finished.

He asked sharply, "Wait? For what?"

Hermione managed not to say 'to get married', because she could see that they both needed to consider much, and learn more about each other, before that became a serious question. But he sounded as if he thought there was no more. Didn't he think they could start a proper, adult affair after she left school?

Blankly she asked, "Is that all? One life-affirming fuck, or maybe just a one-off roll in the pillows? Is that all you meant?"

Impatiently he answered, "Any creature uses sex to celebrate a release from tension, an escape from danger. If you needed it, how much more do you think I did? Especially when it was safe to take that chance to celebrate, at last." His eyes narrowed. "You're not telling yourself something dim and stupid - that you love me? Or that I could love you?"

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. She would not stammer at him like a foolish virgin. Even if that was exactly what she had thought, and felt, and did still feel. Fearing what he might say next, she scrambled over to her clothes and started to pull them on, taking care to arrange them properly in spite of her desire for frantic haste to cover herself from his cold assessing gaze. Whatever he said, it would be better if she was dressed for it. She did not admit that would enable her to run from him as fast as she could.

Abruptly he reached for her, and this time his hands on her shoulders had no gentleness at all.

She met his blazing black eyes, dismayed, as he snarled, "You must learn not to let victory make you play the harlot. But particularly not to let that impulse to celebrate convince you you're in love." His voice dripped contempt.

He shook her mercilessly, but through the jolting she exclaimed, "Do you think I'd kiss just anyone?"

"No? So that was for me? After seven years of hating that unfair, greasy git Slytherin Snape? Of course; why didn't I think of that? Gryffindors are fools for love, then!"

Her own temper roused, Hermione snapped, "A fool indeed, to think you might have it in you to love! Don't you think after seven years I'd see more in you than that façade? I kissed you, Merlin curse you!"

He pulled her abruptly back against himself, between his legs, which twined fiercely around her, imprisoning her. "What you see," Snape hissed, "is me. What you get is only this, what you've had already is all there is."

He kissed her. His teeth forced her lips open, his tongue thrust into her mouth, exploring it with no gentleness. His hands forced her legs apart, dragging them around his arse in a terrible embrace, before he gripped her hips. One hand moved to her behind, hard fingers digging into her flesh so that his growing erection could force its heat into her belly. The other hand closed around one breast, squeezing rhythmically. He bit at her lips, ignoring her attempt to object, his mouth muffling her voice, the pressure of the long kiss forcing her head back so far her neck hurt. Hermione uttered a wordless squeak of fury and outrage, then found herself voiceless as his tongue returned. Her whole body clenched to resist him, even as her head whirled with renewed feverish excitement. That memory, later, shamed her more than anything else.

At last Snape ended the kiss and relaxed his grip on her, though he did not let her pull free. His eyes were snapping at her, and his swollen lips twisted in some mixture of desire and rage. The dark flush on his cheeks and the pulses beating visibly in his throat and temples could have been either or both.

"That is what you asked for. That is all there is."

She wiped the back of her hand fiercely over her sore mouth and retorted, angry enough to ignore their physical intimacy, "Shell and no substance? There's nothing to Severus Snape beyond that pathetic appearance and mere animal lust?"

Joyfully she saw his brows knit tightly together in frustrated anger, even while his hands gripped her vengefully, hurting. She would not flinch.

"A hollow Slytherin indeed, hollower even than your former master. You can let me go," she added, achieving contempt herself. "You needn't fear I'll assault you again. You'll be quite safe in your shell. Why should I want a man who isn't there?"

He did let her go, though his face twisted in a snarl of instant rage and his hands clenched each other as if only thus could they keep from her throat, exposed by her tip-tilted head so close to his.

He did contrive one final insult, though later she wondered at its weakness, falling back on the defences of an older man, a teacher fearful of compromise by a student who was a student no longer. "Take your schoolgirl curiosity and bother one of your foolish Gryffindor friends. I'm not wrecking my life yet again just for a girl who doesn't know what adult sex is, and would fly from it if she did. I can imagine how satisfying that would be! Come back when you've grown up, Miss Granger, if you ever understand you want sex and have learned there's no substance in love."

Hermione scrambled back from him and snatched her wand, banished the Mushroom, rose to her feet and turned from him, leaving him naked with the pillows and the quilt and his clothes and whatever else he had got out of her folly. Regrets, with any luck.

She marched off, sustained by righteous anger despite the growing pain of the hurts his voice and his attitude had inflicted on her as a coda to the pleasure he had given her, the promise of warmth to come that she had thought he offered.

She went blindly back towards Hogwarts, seeking sanctuary. What she found was Harry kneeling by Ron, his face stark despite the tears he probably was not aware of. Hermione fell to her knees, embracing him, even as he clutched at her fiercely, glad to find one friend at least still lived. Then she wept, noisily, without dignity, and knew she wept for shock and outrage rather than for loss. She never told Harry that, and later she mourned for Ron indeed.

Once she had her NEWT results, to which she was at the time almost indifferent, despite her parents' pleasure and admiration, she pleaded a need to get away from all reminders of war and its wounds. They gave her a ticket to Paris and enough money to live on during the summer. They also gave her advice she didn't heed, about enduring the dark night until the sun rose once more. Hermione did see the sun again, but only became conscious of its presence when an old man's voice gently commended her on her ability to talk successfully even with a Dark wizard's book of days. The sun rose as Maître Thomas offered her a place, and training, and an arcane skill he believed she could acquire.

Hermione shook the oppressive past off. It was far more pleasant to think of Maître Thomas than of Severus Snape, but she had work to do. Resolutely she got to her feet and approached the book bound in rough sharkskin which was pinned to the long table against the wall, where the clear Venetian light but no direct sunlight fell on it.

Before she went home that evening another book on the Ca' da Luna Librarian's prioritised list had been rebound. Signor Catanzariti was pleased with her progress. It had been too long since Ca' da Luna had seen a master bookbinder. He asked her to call him Zorzi, and the accent of Venice made a song of her name as he sought permission to use it. Hermione had coffee with him in the best coffeeshop in the little square on the edge of the wizarding quarter, but she declined his offer to walk her home to her apartment.

The months in Milan, and advice from a middle-aged French witch, had taught her how to accept admiration, while making it clear she had no personal interest. After a disconcerting episode in Vienna, where she at last realised that more than one wizard found her attractive, she had become cautious about responding to that kind of overture from the wizards she worked with. Zorzi accepted the rejection gracefully, not abating one jot of his flattering interest, and asked her if she had been round the Venetian Muggles' cathedral yet.

He waved one hand, indicating his lack of interest in their religion, recommending the artworks within and without the beautiful building to her. "Stolen from all over the Mediterranean, everywhere their merchants and sailor armies went," he said cheerfully, "but worth seeing."

Hermione did not say she had been round the cathedral and most of the architectural glories of Venice years ago with her parents, while still at school. As well as learning to say 'No' without using the word, Hermione had learned to avoid mention of her Muggle parents. Some European wizards and witches who had hitherto been friendly became remote when they found she was Muggle-born. These days she found no virtue in useless argument. She was not likely to change the wizarding world.

Zorzi went home to his wife and the three children still at home (whom he had introduced her to just the previous week), and Hermione strolled through the square, enjoying the vocal crowd of wizards and witches having fun after the work-day ended in a way that still seemed larger than life to her British eyes. Dogs and cats and children ran about, mothers scolded and caressed with equal vigour, young wizards and old sat over coffee tables with coffee or wine, watching the unmarried witches who strolled about chatting, conspicuously oblivious to the interest of the men.

Hermione smiled, and made her way to one of the smaller canals of the quarter by stairs and bridges and narrow canalside paths. She pushed open the great door of the patched and water-decayed building, once the home of some wealthy wizarding family. The principal difference between the homes of Venetian wizards and Muggles was that, beneath the water marks and the patchwork of stone from different sources, the wizarding buildings were securely supported on their deep-set wooden foundations by magic.

The grand staircase narrowed after the second flight, and Hermione went two floors higher then walked along to her own door. She had been fortunate, finding this place. She had her own bathroom as well as a tiny kitchen, but otherwise her apartment was one vast open space, with tall windows along the east-facing wall. They let the sun flood in, and because the next two buildings were lower she could see over their tiled roofs to a wider canal with a piazza behind it, and had a view of the Muggles' Gran' Canale, with its vaporetti and barges and gondolas in constant motion. From one window she could even have a glimpse of the distant island of Giudecca, its broad quay backed by massive buildings.

Her narrow balcony with its slender balusters would even support her weight and that of a little café table and a chair, so that on still mornings she could breakfast there, waving to her neighbours doing the same on balconies or a narrow leaded space between the roofs. In this season Venice looked wonderful from above, and she was high enough up not to have to see the orange peel and plastic bags and vegetable refuse that drifted in on the tide from the Muggle canals.

By the time the clear gold light of the Venetian day was replaced by dusky rose, Hermione was walking briskly down a narrow calle leading off the triangular Piazzetta Polo, to dine with a friend. On her first visit to Venice Signor Catanzariti had lodged her with Maia Treventi, widow of another librarian of Ca' da Luna. They had become friends, and Maia had welcomed her return.

While Maia talked the mussels out of their narrow shells opening in the big pot simmering on the stove, Hermione entertained her two young sons. Gianni had demanded another wondertale before Hermione had even set her light coat and headscarf on Maia's bed. His mother clicked her tongue in mild reproof, and told Angelo to set a chair for their visitor. So Hermione began, to the plop of steamed mussels into fish broth, and the clink of mussel shells joining the small mountain in a bucket on the floor.

"There once was a black wizard..."

Gianni interrupted, "Was his skin black, like Vanius the wand-maker?"

"No, but he wore flowing black robes; his hair was black, and tangled round his shoulders; his eyes were black, and sharp enough to cut. If he had had a heart still, that might have been black too, but he had hidden that."

Angelo said confidently, "He was a brave wizard, though, no matter what he had done with his heart."

"Indeed," Hermione confirmed. "He defeated the giant mountain goblin Stonehands; I told you that story last time." Hermione had cribbed that from the Brothers Grimm's story of Jack My Hedgehog, though she had omitted the princess. This time she had meant to tell the story of how the black wizard had confronted his unloving parents, who despised him for being born with a hedgehog's head and banished him to the straw of the horsebarn, but Gianni asked, "What did he do with his heart?"

Hermione reflected that Gianni was only four, his father was not long dead, in a way small children could never understand - for Gianni and Angelo, their father Gianangelo had simply not come home one night. It was also close to their bedtime, though she had discovered long ago that Europeans allowed their children to stay up much later than her parents would ever have done. So she decided instead to do a short, unthreatening version of the tale of Koschei.

"He had put his heart away, because it had been bruised too often; he wanted to keep it safe, and to be free of the pain of its bruises. He made a nest of rushes for it, lining it with swansdown, setting the nest high on a branch of a great oak in the heart of the forest. The heart was safe there; even when the strongest winds blew, the oak stood firm. Though the heart was lonely at first, the creatures of the forest soon discovered it, and then the heart had company. The birds of the air that nested in the oak sang to it of nest-building and eggs and baby birdlets." Hermione said uccellini...ini...ini, and the children giggled at the rush of diminutives.

"The red squirrels paused in their bounding along the broad highway of the oak's branches to tell it of hunting acorns, of hiding them in holes in the tree, of quarrelling over the ownership of acorn caches, and, worst of all, of forgetting where last summer's acorns were hidden. But somehow there were always enough acorns, so the red squirrels continued to come to the heart with their chatter. By that time the heart had lost some of its timidity. It wasn't afraid when the great white owl, which hunted on ghost-silent wings through the forest, perched beside its nest when dusk turned to dark, or when morning twilight was banished by the rising sun, to tell the heart the news of the wider world of the forest.

"Nonetheless, the heart missed its wizard, and when a new visitor came to its nest it asked eagerly for word of him. The visitor did not know its wizard, but the kneazle was young and curious and eager for adventure, so it offered to seek out the black wizard and remind him of his lonely heart."

"What's a kneazle?" Angelo asked.

Hermione smiled ruefully. She had been caught up in her own tale. "A kneazle is a magical creature, a native of my own country -"

"The frozen north?" Gianni asked in innocence, having picked up on one of his mother's jokes.

Hermione said firmly, "My country is green, though it rains more than here - how else do you get green? And perhaps not so warm." Maia laughed.

"Kneazles are like cats," she pressed on, "though they have speckles in their fur. They live very long, almost as long as wizards, though cats do not." She paused for a moment to remember Crookshanks, who died in his sleep at what was not even respectable middle age for a kneazle; then pushed that sadness away.

"So the kneazle agreed to look for the heart's wizard - and I will tell you that story next time, because here is your mother with cozze e polpettini in brodo, with squid-black tagliolini!"

She dreamed that night, but in the morning refused to acknowledge it. If the feelings of her past hung over her like a black cloud, raining on her alone, admitting it did not seem to hold off the insidious dreams of what might have been if he, or she, or something, had been different.

Next day Hermione tackled one of Ca' da Luna's most precious books, compiled over a lifetime by an exiled Venetian wizard who lived in Spain long ago, at the height of the Arab kingdoms' power. Ilari of Toledo was Healer, alchemist, observer of his fellow men, counsellor to princes, and tireless experimenter. His life's work was enshrined in a large, beautifully calligraphed book, which its next owner, the last prince of the dynasty that employed him, had set in covers of worked gold lavishly inlaid with baroque pearls, black diamonds, cabochon rubies and sapphires, as well as lesser stones, and bound with a great clasp powerfully spelled to protect it.

Ilari's book had been the target of thieves for centuries for its fascinating content, especially his work on the Philosopher's Stone, which he was said to have created in a fashion unlike Nicholas Flamel several centuries later. Unfortunately his stone had never been found after his murder, and no one had succeeded in reproducing his research.

That did not keep generations of wizards from persisting in attempts to unravel his obscure directions. The book was also the target of more mundane thieves who desired it for its covers, almost as wonderful. Hermione thought the prince had made a mistake there.

The book had arrived at Ca' da Luna by dubious paths after the fall of Arab Toledo to the Christian kingdom of the north, and Ca' da Luna kept close watch on it. For this book Zorzi was most anxious she should renew the multiplicity of charms against theft, defacement, or even vandalism by wizards who did not approve of all of Ilari's wide interests. It also required rebinding. Some of Ilari's powerful spells of protection were vicious to this day. As she worked Hermione admired his skill, his cunning, and the sheer power he had used, to keep spells alive for over nine centuries.

Fortunately, when the alarm tocsin rang she had the book safely locked down, and could Apparate instantly to the part of the Library where some book had been unwisely released. Maître Thomas had emphasised the need to set up alarms and to ensure she could go direct to the spot at which the alarm was given, as her first task in any library.

Hermione set down the bundle of yew twigs, snatched her wand, and landed right beside the problem. A screaming wizard was pressed against a wall of books, hands tearing uselessly at the flapping covers of the large book that perched on his chest like a vulture unwilling to wait for its quarry to die.

Zorzi was trying to persuade another wizard away from the mess. The man ignored him, snarling, "Abite!"

Great. Zorzi would be delighted to have one of his books vanished, never to be recovered. Fortunately the book paid no attention. A bloody-minded thing then, possibly a grimoire. She should be able to rescue the idiot who had set it off, though.

Hermione levelled her wand and said with all the intent she could summon, "Dede!"

No response beyond an irritated flap of the covers, heavy enough to make a concussion in the air as they came down again on the pages and the man smothered by them, doing no more than whimper now. Tough book; no surrender there.

The dark-robed wizard almost elbow to elbow with her snarled another demand, on a deep note that was dreadfully familiar, "Virum missum fac alioquin!"

Would it forgo its prey for non-specific threats? No. Though it made a nasty noise rattling the edges of its pages together.

Her turn. Not wise to level separate spells simultaneously. Hermione took a deep breath and said rapidly, "Te tuaque omnia potestati permitte!"

That did it. Forced into unconditional surrender, the book groaned deeply, the casing of its spine swelling and flattening. It fell away from its victim, who slid down the wall in a faint. Given the state of the front of his robes, holed, smoking and bloody, it was probably just as well.

She had heard Zorzi summoning a Healer almost as soon as she arrived.

She could bind books, but healing men was another matter. It had been some years since she had done emergency battle mediwizardry. Nonetheless, like the man beside her she stepped closer, to see if the victim's condition was such that an amateur might make a difference just by acting quickly.

The wizard in the black robes knelt, passing his wand over the other's chest.

"Alvise's alive," he said, in very fair Italian, though he didn't sound like a native. "Where's that Healer?"

The pop of Apparition answered him, and the two of them got out of the way hastily.

Hermione turned back to the book. Now it was bound, at least temporarily, she could safely despatch it to her carrel, to the cage that waited, heavily warded, for any recalcitrant.

She found the stranger before her, kneeling over it, wand extended.

Suddenly the long black hair and the robes and the determination and the short-fused temper were deeply familiar. Anger and anxiety made her say harshly, in English, "Get away from that book before you damage it!"

She never spoke to a library's readers like that, no matter how irritated with their foolishness. She had never spoken to Severus Snape like that. To him now she said, as he lifted his head and met her eyes, "You've taken enough risks!"

His lips compressed and his eyes darted fire at her like a curse, but he wasn't surprised either. He rose to loom over her, though the only difference that could make nowadays was to force her to look up at him.

"I want to speak with you in privacy, Hermione."

She blinked, having instantly forgotten Zorzi, then answered more calmly, "You may do so when I've caged this book safely until I can bind it."

Zorzi asked, calmer than either of them, deliberately speaking Italian, "Do you need assistance, Hermione?"

As deliberately she pretended he spoke of the book. "It's quiescent, Zorzi, thank you."

Zorzi enquired politely, "And your friend, signor?"

Absently Severus replied, "I'll follow Alvise to the hospital shortly. He won't be healed of that in five minutes."

"So you have time to explain to me and our Bookbinder how he set off the book?" Zorzi persisted.

Hermione suppressed a snort and despatched the delinquent to her carrel.

Without showing more impatience Severus answered, "We are attending the Potions Masters' symposium - at the college behind the Accademia - and he wanted to show me a potion he found in the book two years ago, when he was last at home."

She muttered, "So it's loosened its bonds some time since then. Zorzi, do you have records of who has consulted this book? It's on the list you gave me, but not a high priority."

"Not kept automatically, no."

Severus's snort was a masterpiece of disdain for incompetence. Hermione ignored him; she would get to him, but first she would deflect the Librarian.

"Would you have someone check for me, please?" Zorzi had several competent people under him.

"Very well," Zorzi agreed, even as Severus's hand gripped her shoulder. "We will discover, if we can, how long it has been eluding the warning spells."

"Now, Hermione."

She sighed, a little theatrically. "At your service, Professor Snape."

To someone who knew him and could read the compressed lips, he was on the verge of losing his temper. "This way. I'll get back to you later,Signor Catanzariti."

Severus Snape followed her up the stairs like her personal thundercloud waiting to burst.

When she shut the door behind him, glancing at the cage to confirm all was secure, he gave her no time to lock it, but did it himself with his wand, adding an Imperturbable Charm. One day Severus Snape was going to have to learn to wait and allow her to act for herself. She glared at him, though it was a side issue.

His hand returned to her shoulder and this time jerked her towards him. "What are you doing here, Hermione?"

"My work, Severus," she snapped, irritated. "I'm a Bookbinder."

"I can see that. And a competent one." That might have been dragged out of him, but he had always been ready to acknowledge competence in anyone not his student, or a Gryffindor, or... Well, perhaps it was a concession.

"And what are you doing here - here?" she challenged.

"Looking at a woman who still doesn't ask for help when she needs it."

He could not dent her professional confidence. "I needed your interference like I need death and disaster."

His lips compressed again, and his eyelids flickered down for a moment; she almost might have thought he was hurt. "Won't you accept help from me even now?"

"I don't get between you and your potions; don't interfere in my work."

"Very well."

He said it as if pleased by a concession. Severus Snape was still very strange; stranger than most men, even. His hand was heavy on her shoulder, and she realised suddenly that not only was she held against his side, but that her own hand had slid around his waist to rest on his hip, while she leaned into him. No wonder he was acting as if they were having a different conversation from the one she had believed they were engaged in. One she had thought she wouldn't have been anxious to have. Or him either.

Without emphasis he said, "We both made mistakes, but mine was worse. I don't want to make more."

Was that some kind of apology? From Severus Snape? She was unlikely to get better, but could not help saying sharply, "Are you taking a long view this time?"

"As long as possible."

He confirmed his intentions by lifting his free hand and deliberately setting it on her hip, cupping it for a moment before sliding it around to her arse, pulling her very close, close enough that she felt him hot and hard and fully erect against her belly. Without thinking she pressed into him. He didn't wait to find out if she had anything of substance to say, since she had accepted his last statement, dizzy with hope and apprehension. Memories, dreams, daydreams and wondertales cascaded in her mind as the impossible seemed to come to pass. His other hand moved from her shoulder to twine in her hair, bound loosely behind her head, using it to anchor her.

He hissed, "Yes," and kissed her, hard, his tongue pushing into her mouth as of right.

She might have been angry, but instead she welcomed it, her own tongue curling up to caress it. She might have been confused by that possessive kiss after the scolding, like that of a parent worried about a child, but instead his words and the kiss illuminated everything. This was more than a shared triumph over danger; this was personal.

A little while later their robes were on the floor and they were as close to each other as possible while still using their hands to explore each other's sensitive places. His hands clenched in her buttocks and carefully parted the cheeks, then his fingers were pressing down the warm damp crease, then teasing at her anus. One of her hands was digging nail deep into that hollow just above his arse, while the other was trapped between their bodies cradling his fullness rather more gently. She lifted up against him and bit lightly at the muscle between throat and shoulder. In response one finger pressed into her, or tried to. After a moment he took that finger away, and she was vaguely disappointed; she was still more disappointed when his mouth released hers.

His hand came to her mouth; she could smell herself on his fingers, and was pleased, as he demanded, "Lick. Suck my fingers."

She did that, intrigued; no one had ever given her the taste of herself like that.

Then his hand returned to her tight entrance, and one finger successfully penetrated. Oh. That was interesting. His finger played with her, caressing, then another was stroking the crinkled flesh before it tried to press inside. She pushed impatiently back against his hand, wanting more, though not sure what.

"Oh yes," he said softly. His mouth returned to hers, his tongue teasing in time with his fingers.

After he had the second finger inside she wasn't sure she liked the burn of pressure against her entrance, but that delicate stroking pleased her still, so she rocked her hips back into his touch to encourage him to continue. She could feel it getting easier, and he must be able to as well; he pressed in more deeply, and the burn, the stretch, were less.

His head lifted just enough for him to ask, "More?"

"Umm," she answered, so he did, until almost all her attention was concentrated on those long slim fingers penetrating her steadily, giving her more of a feeling she had not known existed.

"On the desk," he muttered.

She supposed he was tired of coping with the difference in their heights until she found herself face down across her desk, the cushion from her chair under her hips, softening the uncomfortable edge and lifting her arse for him. He used his knee to open her thighs and stepped between them, gripping her arse cheeks, parting them.

She gasped in sudden insecurity, not sure she wanted this, but the head of his cock was pressing against her still eager entrance, and pressed a little further. It did not hurt, though she would have expected it to, and before she could reconsider she heard him mutter a charm. Then another, both of them feeling much stranger than that intruder insisting on entering. She might have been embarrassed by the sensations, whose purpose was suddenly obvious, but he took up all her attention by pressing into her suddenly slick channel, his way eased.

He slid into her so slowly she clenched around him, wanting him deeper, wanting to be filled in this wholly new way. Her hands, sprawling open across the desk, fingertips reaching for something unknown, moved to grip the far edges so she could keep in place against his thrusts.

He groaned softly, and one of the hands gripping her slid under her hips, between her thighs, his fingers finding her wet heart and stroking. She gasped in sudden pleasure as a damp finger slid along and up her moist flesh, to find her eager clit, coaxing it to an almost painful sensitivity. Oh, that was all she needed.

He stroked her with fingers and cock, and she tried to lift her hips, wanting more from both, until they found a rhythm.

She had no more thought of retreat, or change; all she wanted was more, and deeper, and most of all those fingers playing her so skilfully in time with everything else they were doing to each other. She didn't need delicacy now, and he gave her none, driving her up, and up, and himself as well, thrusting steadily into her, his pace increasing, until they were both racing down the slope, headed for the drop. Hermione muffled her cries with one hand as she tightened around him in a rhythm matching his, forcing him onward. The fascinating sensations in her arse combined with the delightful tension in her clit, and suddenly she was there, at the point where everything stopped, and changed. They pushed each other off the edge, clinging together as they fell. The fall ended in a pool of warm, mindless content.

Hermione became conscious of his hard body leaning over hers, pressing into her still, of his lips lazily mouthing at the flesh of her throat, of one hand tenderly clasping her hot wet folds while the other cupped the point of her shoulder, fingers flexing slightly. When she opened her eyes she couldn't see; long black hair cascaded between her and the rest of the world. She sighed and turned her head, closing her eyes again. He licked along the rim of her ear. She had thought herself drained of response, but that sent a little trickle of fire through her. Involuntarily one of her hands closed over the one between her legs, pressing him nearer.

His fingers tickled lightly, but he murmured, "Uncomfortable?"

She sighed again. "I suppose I am. Do I care?"

"I'll let you up soon. Give me your mouth."

They kissed, light touches of lip to lip rather than the sucking, biting kisses they had exchanged earlier, using their tongues to stroke, barely moving.

At last he slid out of her and moved away enough to allow him to lift and turn her body, then move her into a sitting position on the edge of her desk. She draped herself against him, hoping this continuing intimacy did mean what she had thought he meant when he kissed her first.

"Look at me." The words might be imperative, but the tone was a hope, a desire.

She looked at him fully at last, to find the black eyes astonishingly warm, and even the muscles of his face relaxed. No need to ask if he had liked that; it had been as good for him as for her. She would be damned if she exposed herself to his rejection a second time, though. She waited for him to say something.

"I must go." Oh hell. But his hands did not leave her.

"I must make sure Alvise is recovering." A very small smile twitched at his lips. "He'll want to know if I looked at that potion."

Hermione relaxed a little, cautiously, and rolled her eyes at him. "Leave the book alone until I've rebound it."

"I'll come back to it when you tell me it's approachable again."

He stroked her hair, then threaded his fingers deep into the mass of it, winding the irrepressible curls around his fingers, getting a good secure hold. Only then did he add, "I'll come back to you as soon as I may. Tonight? Where may I see you?"

That was something. "I have a small apartment of my own – just one big room, really. Or we could meet for dinner at one of the fish restaurants on the Fondamenta Neroli, you know it?"

"I don't suppose you cook any better than I do," he said dryly. "Choose a place, name a time."

She didn't respond to his comment on her cooking skills. She did cook, but she could think of better things to do of an evening with Severus Snape. "Zanni's is good, and not fussy; people go for the food. Seven?"

That was early to dine, but friends might well share a couple of glasses before getting around to dinner.

"Yes," he agreed, and reluctantly let her go. It felt as if he were peeling his hands off her flesh. She was as reluctant to lose their warm clasp, and only slowly let her hands slide away from his shoulder, his back.

When they were totally free of each other's bodies he stood looking down at her for a long moment before he said, "I knew you were here. I hadn't anticipated having you after yet another battle, however." That was another smile. A very small, wry one. "I thought I might start by saying it was probably as well for you, if not for me, that I sent you away. I'm only sorry -"

She interrupted. "Not if you don't want your tongue hexed," she warned.

He bent gracefully to gather up his clothing, and set hers on the desk beside her. With equal slowness and pauses for regretful glances they dressed.

After she slid down to the floor and retrieved her shoes she asked, "If I promise not to hex you - tell me what else you might have said."

"That I've spent too much of my life regretting poor decisions," he answered promptly. His eyes glinted at her. "That I dream about you."

So she was not alone in that.

"That I'm glad you have a profession of your own. Otherwise, you know, you might have been teaching Charms at Hogwarts to ungrateful children - Filius retired a few years ago, with some Greek goddess he met in a Norfolk marsh. Instead, you could bind the books Irma Pince has had caged for years, for safety, since Albus is no longer able to master them for her." A trace of sadness sobered his expression, then he added, "I know you can Apparate, so you'd have no excuse for not coming to Hogwarts to see me."

Was that a challenge, an invitation, a provocation? She would take it.

She said mildly, "If Madam Pince invites me."

"She and the Headmistress will both invite you, I'm sure."

He stepped right up to her and pulled her against him once more. "I have invited you. Will you come?"

She had been almost as blunt last time, so she said demurely, "Yes, Severus. If you come home with me tonight." She had done it.

There was no mistaking the flare of light in his eyes. "Give me a kiss to last me," he urged.

"Oh," she breathed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted up to his mouth, "I need more than one kiss. Don't you?"

He didn't answer her in words.

When he lifted the charms securing their privacy and went out her door she was too flushed and ruffled to follow him out, though he assumed his usual cool demeanour, unreadable, until he gave her that tiny smile and a graceful hand gesture as he turned away. He would be back. There would be another time, and another; enough to make up a whole future, perhaps.