Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Mission Impossible	By : CryingCinderella Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 11774 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I make any money from writing these stories.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
A/N: We progress and it gets...darker...

His hands were firm; gripping her hips as he thrust himself into her. She whimpered. It was dark and she could not see, but he felt delicious. Her heart was racing; sweat beading down the side of her forehead, her lips parted as she panted. Hips roiled, rotating up to meet his as she felt his grip tighten on her flesh. She would bruise come the morning. Again Hermione whimpered, longing to feel his lips; longing to taste his tongue against her own. The pressure increased only it moved from her hips to her wrist. She whimpered. “Severus…”

            “Hermione,” he whispered.

            She squirmed, the heat of his body atop hers nearly suffocating. He was practically crushing her wrist. “Ow,” she whimpered.

            “Wake up,” he hissed.

            Hermione’s eyes flew open. Her chest was still heaving; she was covered in sweat, tangled beneath the doona in the bed. He was sitting up in bed, staring his blank eyeless stare at her. She bit her lower lip and felt a blush flood her cheeks. It had been a dream. Just like the first night she had arrived. “I…”

            “Some dream…” he muttered.

            Again she flushed, almost thankful that he couldn’t see her. She wiped her sleeve against her brow, mopping the sweat from her skin before she sat up in the bed. Hermione frowned. If all it took was being in the same room with the man to drive her nocturnal musings wild, she dared not think of how things would end should she manage to heal him. A squeak escaped her lips as he squeezed at her wrist. She hadn’t noticed upon waking that he’d been gripping her wrist quite tightly.

            “Care to enlighten me, or shall I assume you’ve been stricken with delirium?” his voice was cold, but she could sense that he was attempting a barb at humor.

            She found her Gryffindor courage. “I was dreaming about what it will be like when I cure you,” she said and let her legs dangle from the side of the bed.

            “Cure me?” he scoffed.

            “Yes,” she said simply. “Then we can do what we did the last time I saw you,” she said and stood from the bed.

            Severus said nothing for a moment and leaned further back against the headboard of the large bed. “Would that be the order meeting or some other fancy tryst you’re referencing?” he did his best to twist his lips into a smirk but it took quite some effort.

            Hermione frowned but did not sigh as she had wished to; rather, walked around to the side of the bed and took his hand in hers. “You shall have to cooperate to find out,” she said. “Now, let’s get you out of bed and get you a proper meal.”

            For as happy and overjoyed at the varying selections of tea his cupboard presented was as dismal and disappointed as she was in what else there was to be found in the cottage for nourishment. Hermione frowned, half expecting him to retort at her look, forgetting for a moment that he could not see. “And how exactly have you been managing?” she asked, arms uncrossing from her chest as she opened a few more cabinet doors high above the sink. They contained little more than dust and cobwebs.

            Hermione turned her head back over her shoulder but the narrow doorway to the kitchen was empty. She sighed. But rather than call out to him she continued to rummage through the cabinets. After several more minutes she managed to scrape together a large pot, salt, and a bag of grain. The burlap sack did not look appealing and she wondered how long it had been hidden in the back of the cupboard beneath the sink. She sifted through the bag several times turning the grains through her fingers until she was satisfied that it was not infested with mold or bugs. She filled the pot with water, the grains and some salt before setting on the fire of the tiny stove.

            It only took a moment to find him in the study. He was seated in the chair that she had slept in her first night to the cottage. Hermione frowned; she found herself doing that nearly every time she looked at him. His figure was slumped back in the chair rather than held up and his face looked tired. “Food will be ready soon,” she said softly.

            “Food hardly matters,” he muttered.

            “Sir?” She shook her head. She needed to be strong; as she had been when she’d first arrived before he knew her identity. She couldn’t falter because he knew who she was; her feelings couldn’t get in the way if she were going to save him. “You need to eat,” she said.

            “Yes…” he hissed and coughed as he cleared his throat. “There you may be correct…”

            Hermione was cautious as she took a step forward; the image of his tightened grip on her arm the night he’d confronted her flashing before her eyes. Perhaps Dumbledore had been right, perhaps the curse had changed him. But she had to try. “You’ve managed this long…” she whispered. “And the cupboards have been bare for a long time…” Her gentle step creaked across the floorboard as she moved closer to him.

            “You do ask too many questions,” he muttered, the blank voids staring in her direction, his head tilted slightly to the side. “The fact that I have managed should suffice.”

            She stopped walking as she stood in front of the chair. “You— you need to tell me so that I can help,” she said though her voice hardly sounded strong.

            “Fear?” he questioned. Silence fell between them. Hermione held her breath for a moment and tried to calm her breathing. When had her heart started racing, and her brow was sweating, had it grown warmer in the tiny study? She kept her gaze steady upon his face. “You slept beside me just last night and now you show fear?” he mused though his voice was shaky.

            “I—” she cleared her throat and started again. “I am not afraid. I am uncertain. And cautious.”

            He said nothing but moved slowly, leaning his weight against his arm until he stood from the chair. His body trembled, and again she found it hard not to gaze upon him with pity. Though his face was no longer covered in rough stubble and his hair was cleaned, he still looked like a man who had not seen civilization in ages. “Please answer me,” she said.

            Severus reached his hand out, arm trembling, and gripped her upper arm. Hermione stepped closer to him, but then stepped back as he began to squeeze her arm. “This is unwise,” he hissed, but did not release the grip on her arm.

            “You are hurting me, Severus,” she did her best not to whimper as she tried to step back. Her instinct was to yank her arm back and force him down into the chair. But something rooted her to the spot. Perhaps it was because he was so weak that it took all he had to grasp onto her; or perhaps that she knew he was deteriorating from the curse and would never approach her as such otherwise, but either way she stayed still, her arm clenched tight in his feeble but painful grip.

            “There are things…I need…” he rasped.

            “Then tell me,” she said a bit too quickly.

            Both hands were gripping her arms now, though she could feel the weight of his body leaning forward against hers. It was taking all his strength to grip her and stay on his feet at the same time. Hermione slid both of her hands up until they rested on top of his shoulders. For a moment she felt his grip slacken and a trembling sigh escaped her lips.

            “You should never have come here.”

            “Don’t start that again, it’s getting us nowhere!’ she shouted and then cupped a hand over her lips. She hadn’t meant to shout. But her emotions were running wild. She was frightened and uncertain, she felt helpless and driven at the same time. And of course the feelings that stirred deep inside her, those feelings that pertained solely to him, not his curse or their current situation. Hermione’s head was swimming, and she found herself crying out, a tiny whimper as he gripped her arms tightly, tighter than before.

            The soft strands of black hair brushed against her cheek as he leaned his head close to hers. She shivered as she felt his breath against her skin. “Blood,” he hissed. “I need blood.” It was no longer his arms that were shaking, but hers as he hissed his words against her ear. “The curse saps away…does not allow it to replenish…” his breaths were ragged as he leaned against her. It took all her strength to hold him up without falling backward and onto the floor. “More and more the longer I go without it…and it is never enough…”

            Hermione could feel the tears leaking down her cheek as he spoke. “Oh, I—”

            “You should have let me die…” he hissed. “You taunt me just by existing,” he hissed, his fingers squeezing tighter, pressing into her flesh.

            “Stop it!” she cried and forced her arms hard against his shoulders. He stumbled backward, fumbling to gain his balance until he collided with the chair and collapsed against it. A bang echoed from the kitchen and the air filled with the scent of burning grains. She fled from the room, leaving him alone, crumpled into the chair, a single tear falling from his unseeing eye.

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Mission Impossible