Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 20
- 21
- 22
A/N:
OO – ‘time for me to start rambling about theories’ – I love your rambling theories, never stop. ‘I had the brief notion that she was Hermione's kid’ – really? Interesting . . . ‘like Bella had had Voldie's baby or something’ – even more interesting! ‘it would explain why she's so smart and in tune with Hermione.’ – uhuh *nods with more interest*. ‘But she has blue eyes.’ – she does . . .;) ‘that could be some sort of recessive gene thing though’ – I like your Mendelian genetic inheritance pattern reference here. ‘Damn you and your eternal mystery!’ – not quite eternal . . . lots in this chapter. ‘And Sophia must know if she's giving all these cryptic clues’ – clever girl, Clarice ;) x
LissaDream – Wow you have had a busy week! I hope you had a great Easter even though you were hosting. I’m glad I seem to have achieved a blend of maddening/intriguing. Hopefully this chapter will shed more light on the complexities of their relationship. And Sophia . . . she’s an interesting one . . . more to come on her too ;)
Discord the Lunatic – A wrinkle indeed! And unfortunately a few more to come x
Kvarta – ‘it is not out of the realm of possibility that not only physical but also emotional part of their...connection...has something to with it.’ – hmmm, very possible :) ‘Sophia's talk about the bird and the cuckoo baby bird does tell a story about her own life, I think. But I really can't be sure.’ – again, that’s a possibility (infuriating I know!). ‘Is Sev going to be a daddy?’ – ummm, maybe . . . (I know you’re going to hate me for this). ‘I'm still pining for Sev's POV’ – I’m afraid he knows too much to give us his POV. Maybe after this chapter. ‘don't keep us in dark you cruel thing’ – I do apologise xx.

Chapter 21 – Conceal and Reveal
Hermione floats. The water is colder than she would like but she can’t summon the will to change anything.
Not one thing.
Both hands cradle her abdomen . . . they have for hours.
Impossible. It is totally impossible to fathom.
And yet the proof is right there. Strewn over the bathroom floor.
It’s indisputable.
A divination spell, a pregnancy potion and even a Muggle pregnancy kit are in unanimous agreement about the verdict—she . . . Hermione Jean Granger . . . is pregnant.
But how?
She isn’t dense. Of course she knows the physical requirements. And she and Severus had certainly met those.
But the issue was one of fertility. She’d not had a period in years—literally. The Healers at St Mungos couldn’t say if it was due to her weight loss or if the condition, itself, was responsible but it was genuinely considered that she wouldn’t be able to conceive.
She’d had to come to terms with it—something she’d found immensely difficult considering the fact that her last partner had been unable to. He’d left her because of it. He was her boss—quite a lot older than she—and he’d wanted a family . . . a family she could never provide.
Now this. She flexes her fingers against her abdomen in wonder. A tiny being growing, evolving just beneath her fingertips . . . defying all odds just by being there. It was . . . miraculous.
But if she thought about it, she could imagine that her physical improvement, and perhaps even the happiness she’d felt with Severus, may have been enough to induce ovulation . . . an egg waiting years to make its journey, meeting with a seed . . . his seed . . . delivered with such passion.
And she could almost imagine their microscopic fusion, as she had lain fused with him, nestled into him.
It had been perfect.
But that’s where the perfection ended.
With him.
Severus.
Her hands subconsciously slide together, fingers interlocking protectively.
How would he take it . . . now that he wanted nothing to do with her?
Would he feel trapped by the revelation? Would he think she’d done it on purpose? Perhaps to keep him with her . . . to ensure a constant supply of his healing balm?
After all, he had asked if she was taking anything that evening . . . if she was protected. She had avoided the question, not wishing to reveal the pathetic state of her body, her inadequacies as a woman. She’d wondered then if he would be likely to reject her too . . . because of it.
But it hadn’t even required that. He’d managed to reject her without that admission at all . . . even without that final clincher.
She stares at the cracks snaking across the ceiling—still damaged from the war . . . even after all this time. None of them meet. They take separate journeys. And it is probably just as well. If they did connect it could be disastrous.
She sighs and closes her eyes.
Then there was the possibility that he would be happy. Maybe he’d always wanted to be a father. She had actually imagined it—fleetingly. As she was sitting beside the fire with him, grazing her toes against his, he’d seemed so relaxed and comfortable. She could imagine a child on his knee, reading one of the well-loved books shrouding his shoulders.
But that image had all but evaporated over the past two weeks. Now the thought of him lovingly embracing her as she tearfully reveals the good news seems utterly farcical.
The truth is, however, that he needs to know. He must be told.
It isn’t as though she can keep it a secret forever anyway. In a few months’ time her condition would be more than obvious. As long as she could actually carry a baby. Provided her body was capable of supporting another being—especially when it could barely support her own existence.
The thought makes her sadder than she could possibly imagine. And that realisation worries her—so many babies are lost at this early stage for many reasons, and her body is hardly the epitome of lush vitality.
The ache in her chest swells. She can barely understand her sense of attachment after only a few hours. But it is the idea of having someone to care for—someone to love and teach and share all of herself with—that has captured her heart. This, and the sense that she has been given a singular gift, one that is unlikely to ever be repeated. She feels the tears slipping down her cheeks. But she daren’t even label them happiness . . . not yet.
She will tell him.
But he needn’t be involved. Not at all. She will look after the baby. She will do everything.
And even if he wants neither of them. Even if he spurns them—sends them away as he had done before—she is confident that they will be okay.
They. Them. Together.
***
She knocks.
Dressed only in slippers and dressing gown she feels completely under-prepared but she needs to get it out. She needs to tell someone. And he needs to know.
Deep down, she wants his response. No matter what it is, she needs to witness the reality—not the agonising scenes that have been playing out ad infinitum in the masochistic movie reel of her mind. She’s already seen his face in her mind’s eye a hundred times, slowly melting into fury, shock, despair and everything in between. It is making her feel ill.
She just wants him to—
“Hermione.”
It’s him. He’s there.
But only just.
She has never seen him dishevelled, but that’s exactly how she would describe him now.
He runs a hand through his tangled hair, a day’s stubble marring his normally impeccably smooth skin.
Stepping back, bloodshot eyes downcast, he allows her in.
The room is stuffy. Books are strewn across the coffee table. A bottle of firewhisky sits on the mantel—half empty.
Is this the best time to tell him?
Hermione turns to suggest that perhaps she should come back at another time when he speaks.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The words die on her lips.
“We need to talk.” He gestures to a chair by the fireplace.
Hesitating, she waits until he takes the chair opposite. Then she follows, perching herself on the edge of hers, just in case she needs to leave quickly.
“What do you wish to talk about?”
She hears her own clipped tone and wishes it weren’t so. After all, she is hoping that he won’t devastate her completely when it’s her turn.
“I believe I know the cause of your suffering.”
You? She instantly admonishes her inner voice for the quip.
But then it sinks in—the exact meaning of his words.
“What?” She leans forward. “What is it?”
“I must ask you to answer some questions first.” He speaks slowly, methodically. He doesn’t seem drunk, just immensely tired.
She nods quickly.
“I need the truth.”
The truth? When had she ever been untruthful?
“That’s all I’ve ever given you.” She feels herself choking up and drops her gaze to her white knuckled fists which clutch onto the bathrobe tie like a life-line.
He doesn’t respond and when her eyes venture back, she sees that he is staring into the fire, hands loosely clasped, elbows propped wearily on his knees.
He is silent for so long that when he finally speaks, she gives a faint jolt.
“When you were with me . . . in the infirmary. When you were providing ‘care.’ Were we ever . . . intimate?”
Her heart sinks. This is what had driven that agonising distance between them in the first place.
“It depends what you call ‘intimate.’”
“Did we have sex?”
The question is delivered so quickly that she has to inhale rapidly before she can respond.
“We had . . . oral sex.”
“You performed fellatio . . . on me.”
“Yes.” Her voice retreats to almost nothing.
“Did I ejaculate?”
“Yes.”
“Did you swallow?”
Her words stick in her throat. “I don’t understand what—”
“Did . . . you . . . swallow?” he repeats more forcefully.
“Yes!” she cries angrily.
“Why?”
She leaps up from her chair. “What do you mean, ‘Why’?!”
“You were a student. I was your Professor. We weren’t even on particularly friendly terms prior to this. What would make you swallow my ejaculate?”
“Because you . . . you . . .”
“Because I made you do it.” His voice is tight.
Her face contorts. “No . . . I didn’t see it like that. You didn’t know what you were doing . . . you were delirious for much of the time. And I felt I could help. You wanted it. Sometimes you would cry. I let you . . . do it to me.”
His head is in his hands. It is shaking almost imperceptibly.
“I wanted to do it,” she reassures him. “I didn’t try to stop you.”
“You should have,” he hisses bitterly, his black eyes rushing up to meet hers.
“But I . . . I couldn’t.” Her eyes suddenly fill with tears. “I loved you.”
“Fuck!” he growls, leaping to his feet and striding away from her.
“It wasn’t my fault!” she cries desperately. “I was young. I was so lonely . . . without my parents, without my best friends. You were the only constant in my life. And you needed me. You told me so. You touched me. You kissed me . . . my hands . . . so lovingly. I . . . I thought—”
“I didn’t know it was you,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, thrusting his hands firmly into his pockets.
“As I discovered.” She brushes the tears away angrily. “You shattered that delusion in no uncertain terms . . .”
His lips draw back in anguish.
“It took me a long time to let you go,” she rasps, trying to swallow past the constriction in her throat. “And I truly thought that I had. Until . . .”
“Until the manipulation began . . .” he finishes, the overhang of his tousled hair adding to the haunted look in his eyes.
She shakes her head, more agitated than confused. “Manipulation?”
“Haven’t you felt it?” he mutters darkly. “That . . . indescribable . . . pull.”
“No.”
He stares at her for a long moment before lifting a hand to his face, slowly rubbing his eyelids. “I survived Nagini’s bite because I took every precaution . . . I had been inoculating myself with her venom for years, carrying the antivenin and a host of quality blood-replenishing potions at all times . . . just in case.”
She gives him only silence in return.
He sighs before dropping his hand to his side and facing her. “Why, then, did I nearly die? Why was I ill for many months when Arthur fucking Weasley recovered from its bite in a matter of weeks?”
Hermione considers demanding that he stop talking in riddles but his answer comes before she can formulate the request.
“Because it wasn’t the venom alone that was attacking me . . . It was him.”
“Who?”
“The Dark Lord . . . Voldemort.”
“But how could he—?”
Severus begins to pace. “Nagini was a horcrux—the only living one that the Dark Lord created. She was carrying an extremely unstable piece his soul after so many rounds of division . . . and it had become even more fragile as the other horcruxes were progressively destroyed. I believe that, with my historical connection to the Dark Lord, upon Nagini’s bite, along with the poison there must have been some . . . transference.”
“Transference? . . . You mean—?” She stares at him.
He stops pacing, his face pinched with the strain. “Yes. I believe I was infected . . . And that I am now carrying a part of him inside me, not as a horcrux necessarily but more like a possession . . . similar to that stupid bastard, Quirrell.”
Hermione’s mouth feels suddenly parched.
“But I didn’t make that connection until recently. I thought I’d received a particularly bad bite—a lot more venom which had taken significantly longer to recover from, and resulted in the loss of a good deal of function.” He looks hard at her. “That was . . . until you arrived . . . and we began to—”
Hermione crosses her arms defensively. “What difference did that make?”
“I started to recover.”
“What?” Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been improving . . . like me . . . and you didn’t say anything?”
“I . . . wasn’t sure of the connection.” His gaze slips away from hers.
Hermione’s face flushes with anger. “Really? The fact that we were both healing—together . . . you didn’t think that perhaps our conditions were related?”
He runs a hand distractedly through his hair. “I needed to be sure. I wanted to work it out before I informed you.”
“Informed me? Informed me of what? You haven’t informed me of anything.” Hermione cries. “At least nothing that explains what the fuck is going on.”
Snape sighs, propping his hands on his hips as he implores the ceiling. “It was only confirmed last night. After Lucius.” He then drops his head, shoulders sagging under the burden. “I believe that you were also infected . . . as a result of what I forced you to do.” He takes a deep breath. “The physical and . . . as you have just confirmed, emotional connection between us—at the time that he was still actively invading my body—could have been enough.”
Hermione’s hands fly to her face. She presses them over her mouth and nose, not daring herself to breathe.
“And whilst my body fought him . . . like an infection, driving him to hide, laying dormant inside me, waiting . . . yours didn’t—it was likely a more insidious possession, allowing him to take root, to evolve, to spread. I believe that your ‘condition’ is actually your experience of him, his existence within your body and the fact that he is trying to engage with the world through you . . . trying to feel.
She makes a feeble whimpering sound but no words come out.
“And so now you understand the manipulation.” He flings his arm out to indicate them both. “All of this . . . between us . . . has been orchestrated . . . by him. When we are together, when our essences combine, he is whole. We balance each other because we each carry a part of him.”
She shakes her head disbelievingly. “That can’t be,” she finally whispers. “. . . If it were true, surely he would want to spread . . . to infect others . . . What would be the point of bringing us back together?”
Severus steps toward her, his hands outstretched. “Because to truly exist—to come back into this world and not to simply feel it through a surrogate, he needs a body. That’s what he wants. And that’s why I can’t be near you.” His voice suddenly breaks. Stunned, she looks into his eyes which are swimming with despair. “All I want is to be with you. To be near you. Inside you . . . but all of it feeds him. I couldn’t climax because that holds too much risk. I shouldn’t have even been inside you except that the drive was so strong . . . so impossibly difficult to resist.” He steps forward and grasps her hand with an agonizing desperation. “Hermione, we are going to have to live with our own afflictions. And even though we ‘feel’ complete—we can never be together. If it were to happen . . . if we were to allow those two parts of his soul to finally manifest within a body . . . it would mean his return. We would be responsible . . . for the resurrection of the Dark Lord.”
Hermione’s breaths come in shallow gasps. Lifting a trembling hand, she places it over her abdomen.
Severus stares at her. Neither of them speak. But then his face starts to transform, like an explosion in slow motion. Everything changes.
All she sees in the end are the whites of his eyes.
Then she collapses into darkness.
- 20
- 21
- 22
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete