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Chapter Text

There came a knock on his door late one night and he rose from his chair to answer it with extreme prejudice, muttering furiously about inept students needing constant attention at all hours of the night.

He twisted the knob angrily and yanked open the door. “What—” There was nobody there. 

“Please excuse Mippy, sir,” squeaked a tiny voice. 

Severus clenched his jaw and looked down. The tiny elf was shaking with the effort to carry a large portrait over her head. 

“What do you want?” 

“Madam Headmistress sent a note! Portrait delivery, sir. Please, sir, Mippy can magick onto your wall?” 

“I didn’t get a note,” he growled at her. “This is absolute nonsense. Go away.” 

“Mippy shall place it on your wall and be gone, as requested by Madam Headmistress, sir.” The elf swallowed audibly. He could practically hear her knees clattering under the weight of the ornate, gilded frame.  

“No,” he replied irritably, waving his hand in dismissal, which the elf obviously couldn’t see from under her large burden. “I will speak to Headmistress McGonagall in the morning.” 

Crack. 

The portrait disappeared from Mippy’s back and the elf finally looked up at him with large, bulbous eyes. He glared down at her and every bit of her, including the tips of her giant ears, vibrated with fear. Then, her gaze shifted and her eyes widened as she looked at something behind him. Severus turned. The portrait hung on the wall right above the fireplace, the gold frame gleaming ominously in the flickering light. 

Swiftly, he rounded on Mippy. “You insolent little—” 

Crack. 

“GODDAMMIT!” he yelled to the empty hallway. 

He slammed the door shut, stalked over to the fireplace, and sneered up at the empty canvas. The subject of the painting was nowhere to be found. He grasped both sides of the frame and made a concerted effort to pull it from the wall. It didn’t budge an inch. He stubbornly continued straining until his back audibly cracked and something began throbbing painfully. Fuck this, he thought irritably and pulled out his wand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a deep, cheerful voice. Severus startled and icy dread trickled down his back. The voice was a familiar one. He stepped back and glared up at the newly-arrived occupant of the portrait, who was grinning down at him with utter delight. 

“Dolohov,” Severus sneered. “What a pleasure it will be to stuff you into the dark depths of the  Hogwarts storage closet.” He raised his wand. 

“Oh I don’t think so, Sevvy.” Dolohov winked at him. “I have so many delicious plans for us!  Besides, Mippy fastened me to your wall with a Permanent Sticking charm. Even a Muggle jackhammer wouldn’t be able to pry me off of these castle stones.”

“I’ll just summon the elf. She removed you once—she can do it again.” 

“Oh, but dear Minerva won’t allow it. I drove her up the wall, ha!, and now she’s foisted my portrait upon you. And don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. Yes, you’re a greasy-haired, sour-faced little beast, but I’d much rather be here than in Fillius’s room. He was her second choice, you know.” 

He continued to chatter on about McGonagall and his time with the other ‘esteemed’ portraits in her office. “They couldn’t stand having a former Death Eater nearby! Oh, it was such fun goading them. Amrose Swott would turn a lovely shade of purple every time I said Divination can’t be taught! ” 

“Do you ever shut up?” hissed Severus, who had abandoned his wand after every severing and de-gluing charm failed spectacularly. He gave one final yank at the blasted frame and finally accepted that it was, indeed, utterly cemented to the wall. 

“Oh, just give up, already. You’re embarrassing us both.” 

Severus stepped back with a harsh sigh of frustration. He stalked over to the door and began preparing what he would say to Minerva about this outrageous act of blatant betrayal! He racked his brain thinking of what he had done to slight her. Nothing! He had been a perfect, silent gentleman. Gone were the jealous feelings regarding her elevated position at Hogwarts. He was quite content to slink back into the shadows of the castle and do his job without complaint. He reached for the door handle.

“No, no, Sevvy,” sang Dolohov from his perch. Somehow he had conjured a glass of vodka that he was swirling and sipping with an amused grin on his face. “Minnie is sleeping and you mustn’t disturb her beauty rest. In fact, you look like you need a rest as well, yes? Torturing the first years can be very tiring, I imagine.” 

Severus stood at his door, glaring into the wood, and conceded, with great effort, that perhaps Dolohov was right. It was almost midnight and Minerva didn’t take kindly to being disturbed after hours unless it was an emergency. 

“First years are the worst,” he muttered in response to Dolohov’s question and he rolled his sore shoulders as he made his way to the bed in the corner of the room. 

“Tell me all about it, zmeyka,” said Dolohov cheerfully, “while you change into your ancient sleeping robes. Don’t you know the young wizards simply wear boxer shorts to bed?” 

“I will tell you nothing,” snapped Severus, trying not to think about how portrait Dolohov knew about the new fads regarding underwear. He stepped behind the screen near his bed to change. 

His room was spacious with tall, wide windows that looked over the grounds. It was an open floor plan with the kitchenette, study, living area, and bedroom all contained within the large space—which meant that Antonin fucking Dolohov now had a full view of almost every part of the room except for the enclosed bathroom and the space behind the screen where Severus also kept his wardrobe. 

Dolohov could tease him all he wanted, but Severus was decidedly grateful to be fully clothed in sleeping robes. His eyes seemed to be everywhere. Slytherin green, they were, and flashing within the enchanted paint of the portrait in an uncanny likeness of his true form. 

“Ah, still quite handsome, all buttoned up,” smiled Dolohov when Severus emerged from behind the screen. 

“Shut up, Dolohov,” he said dully and sat heavily on the side of the great empty bed. 

“Understood, my dear zmeyka. I’ll shall go make my rounds while you sleep.” 

Severus rolled his tired, gritty eyes and slid under the covers. The room grew quiet and he drifted into a restless sleep. 

*****

“Tell me what to do,” she begged, chest heaving, tears in her eyes. “Please.”

The desperation in her voice made his heart lurch. He was frozen, his limbs numb and useless. 

She began sobbing. “I need…please. I want…” Her hands clawed towards him. 

Frantically, he shook his head and edged away. “I can’t,” he said in a low voice, terror making his heart pound viciously within his chest. “I will not.” 

Her head tossed back and forth in wild, heartbreaking cracks. She keened miserably, her hands shaking as she attempted to touch herself. She couldn’t, though, and the moment her fingers dipped into her cunt, she turned and heaved, splattering vomit onto the dark stones. 

She let out a fearful scream of frustration and curled into herself, hands lifted awkwardly away from her body. 

“Help me…” she whispered through her tears. “Please.” 

“No,” he said helplessly, dropping to his knees before her. “I can’t…”

*****

He woke up gasping and clutching the robes at his chest. They were choking him, dammit, and he longed to throw them off! 

“A dream, Sevvy,” said a soothing voice from the wall. “You are safe.” 

He blinked away tears and frowned at their existence. What the hell kind of dream was that? He reached for the memory of it but it slipped out of his grasp and faded away, as dreams often do. 

He drew his wand from under his pillow. “Tempus,” he mumbled. Four in the morning. Might as well get up. He was too unsettled to sleep any longer and the earlier he got to the Great Hall for Saturday breakfast, the fewer people he would see. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Getting up,” he said with a sigh. 

“No. It is too early. Back to bed, Sevvy.” 

“Stop calling me that.” 

“Would you rather I called you malen'kaya lan'?” 

“I don’t speak Russian.” 

Dolohov grinned. He was lounging on the settee painted in the background of his portrait. “It means ‘little doe.’” 

Severus sent a hex across the room that scorched the wall within inches of the hideous gilded frame. Dolohov didn’t even flinch but his eyes darkened. 

“Go back to bed,” he commanded, his tone serious. 

“But this is when I usually—”

“Bed. Now.” 

The words cracked over him like a whip. A whip that brought strange relief. Severus found himself sliding back into the warm covers and settling his cheek onto the cool, dry side of his pillow. The interruption of Mippy bearing the cursed artwork had put him in bed later than usual and he was so weary. Of everything. Of teaching those sniveling brats, making the same old endless potions, and listening to the constant gossip and chatter of his colleagues who didn’t quite seem to realize they were supposed to be the adults in the room. Life had lost its allure…although, Severus wasn’t really sure there was a time he had enjoyed living. Dying from Nagini’s bite had seemed fitting at the time—an end to his pitiless, depressing existence. That he hadn’t was yet another disappointment. 

*****

When he awoke again, bright shafts of sunlight were streaming through the large castle windows of his room. He took a moment to stretch luxuriously in his bed before dread coiled into his gut. Another weekend. Endless hours of time alone in the screaming silence of his room. He didn’t dare venture out—he was tired of being spat on and hissed at and hexed in the village. “Death Eater,” they whispered when they passed him by. “Murderer.” 

It didn’t matter that the Wizengamot had cleared him of all crimes. It didn’t matter that the only respected journalist at the Prophet had done an exposé outlining Severus Snape’s “invaluable contributions to the war effort.” Wizardkind had made up its mind as soon as Dumbledore fell from the tower and nothing was going to change it. 

Hogwarts was the only place he still commanded respect, but he couldn’t stand mingling among his colleagues and worse, the students, during his time off. So, puttering around his room in loathsome solitude was the least offensive of his options. 

Except he wasn’t quite alone anymore. His eyes shifted to the portrait. Dolohov wasn’t there but Severus was sure he would return to torment him soon enough. 

They had hardly known each other as Death Eaters. The masks did a good job of keeping them all separated. The Dark Lord was notoriously paranoid of his powerful followers forming alliances and attempting a coup, so the anonymity of the robes and masks was a strategy to control them. It had been surprisingly effective. Well, that and the deadly combination of Legilimency and Cruciatus. 

Severus dressed, ate two pieces of toast, drank a terrible cup of tea, and sat staring morosely out of the window. 

“Quick, she’s coming,” gasped Dolohov from the wall, his hair disheveled, as if he had been sprinting through portraits. 

“Who?” asked Severus, rising with alarm. 

“You must let her in!” 

Severus glared. “I must do nothing! Now tell me what you’re on abo—”

A tentative knock interrupted him and he pressed his lips together. 

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot! Get the door!” hissed Dolohov. 

Scowling, he made his way to the heavy wooden door and opened it. 

Her head was down so all he could see was a wild nest of faded brown curls. She was small, shoulders thin and frail, and she wore Gryffindor robes, which was unusual garb for a Saturday. Most students chose to wear more casual clothes on weekends, like t-shirts and denims. Her arms were laden with books, which reminded him of—

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she whispered to her feet. 

Severus glanced back at the portrait behind him but Dolohov had disappeared. 

“Are you lost?” he asked the girl with a resigned sigh. 

“No, Professor.”

She lifted her head. 

“Miss Granger?” he said, aghast. What in the world was wrong with her? He hardly recognized her horrifyingly frail and frazzled appearance. Severus frowned and considered taking her to the hospital wing. 

The girl was an Eighth Year student with special permission to finish her studies and take her NEWTs at the end of the school year. Only a few particularly bright students had requested and been approved to return for an extra year. Most of the war-torn students in their class had found jobs offered by sympathetic magical citizens who shrugged and said OWLs were good enough. 

“You have been absent from my class the past few weeks,” he said, folding his arms. 

“This was a mistake,” she whispered and turned to go. 

“Stop.” Dolohov was back. “Bring her in, Severus.” 

The girl began trembling but turned back and followed Severus when he beckoned her inside with an annoyed eye roll. They both walked to the portrait of Dolohov and stopped, looking up at him. 

“Take her books, Severus.” 

He sighed and held out his arms. She clutched the books tighter and then, eyes flitting around, set them on a nearby end table herself before returning to the portrait. 

“Do you know who I am, moya milaya?” he asked softly, staring down at her with an unreadable look. 

The girl nodded quickly. Two tears ran down her pale cheeks and dripped onto her uniform. She pressed her palm to her chest and shuddered, her back bowing as she curled into herself.  

Ah, yes. The curse of Antonin Dolohov. Severus had been called to the hospital wing that night. He had been horrified by the wound and had provided all the help he could to Pomfrey as the child screamed and writhed until a Dreamless Sleep potion had thankfully knocked her unconscious. It took her weeks to recover from the unknown curse and her scar had remained red and angry far longer than it should have. 

At the time, Severus had been furious at Dolohov, but his hands were tied. If he had lost his temper at every vile, despicable thing a Death Eater had done to a child, he would’ve outed himself to Voldemort within a week and been quickly ‘disposed of.’ 

At least Dolohov was dead, even if his portrait was still haunting them. 

“I apologize for the…decor,” ground out Severus. “Would you like to leave?” 

She nodded her head without meeting his eyes and began to shuffle back to the door. 

“I can help you,” said Dolohov quickly. “The curse is manifesting, yes, little dove? You are in pain.” 

She froze, barely breathing. Severus watched as she closed her eyes and more tears trailed from under her dark lashes. 

He glared at Dolohov. “You’re only making this worse,” he said in a low voice, hovering protectively over the girl. 

“Alas, I cannot give you all you need, little dove. However, Severus will help.” 

She shot Severus a look of abject fear mixed with hopeful longing before shifting her head so her matted hair covered her face once more. His heart lurched at the emotional toll the curse was ravaging upon her in addition to the physical changes. She was a mere shell of the girl—the woman—she had been even six weeks ago. 

“What did you do to her?” growled Severus, rounding on Dolohov with his wand raised. 

To his satisfaction, Dolohov raised his hands in supplication. “It was an experimental curse,” he admitted slowly. “Even I do not know the full effects—or the countercurse.” He glanced over at the girl who was now weeping softly under her curtain of hair. “But it is my intention to find out and fix what I so carelessly broke. I give you my word, little dove,” he said beseechingly. 

The girl peeked out from under her hair. 

“But,” Severus lowered his voice, “what does this have to do with me? How exactly do you expect me to…help?” He curled his lip. He was becoming more and more desperate to solve this problem and rid himself of both the girl and the possessed canvas on his wall. 

“I am a mere portrait and this will require…hands-on…treatment.” Dolohov stared at him with a challenge in his gaze. Would Severus be so cruel as to send Miss Granger away in such a state? 

“Fine, what do I do?” 

“It will take time.” 

Severus sighed. “An hour?” 

“Days. Longer. You will have to do research on my behalf. But once my little dove is feeling better, I’m sure she will help.” 

“She isn’t YOUR–”

“Miss Granger, please sit down on Sevvy’s sofa. It’s more comfortable than it looks, I imagine.” 

She did as she was told, sinking down upon his old, black velvet sofa with a soft sigh of relief. Bringing her knees to her chest, she watched Dolohov warily with just her eyes showing through her tangled hair. 

“Severus, you will listen carefully and follow my instructions exactly. Do you understand?” 

Severus, still standing by the portrait with his wand at his side, nodded reluctantly. Dolohov was serious, he could tell, and there was something about his commanding tone. Something that did things to Severus, he realized with a shot of self-loathing. You pathetic, disgusting fool, he thought to himself. 

So often he thought of himself as old, past his prime, practically wizened, likely because of the fresh-faced eleven year old children crawling all over the castle. He sighed. But forty wasn’t old. It was perfectly normal to still have wants and needs...and feel your cock twitch when a violent, terrifying ex-Death Eater commands you to follow his directions regarding a young woman.  Handing over control was both terrifying and electrifying and the subsequent heat that suffused his body made his skin itch. 

“Sit down on the sofa with Miss Granger,” Dolohov instructed. 

“Don’t call me that,” whispered the girl. 

“What would you prefer, little dove? Shall I call you moya milaya? Or perhaps zayka?” 

“Wh-whore,” she whispered. “Slag-g.” She pressed her eyes into her knees and trembled more violently.

“No, moya milaya. This is the curse making you feel this way. Will you let me help you?” he implored. “Do I have your permission, my little dove?” 

She gave a tiny nod of her head which was still buried in her knees. 

“Aloud, my dove.” 

“Yes,” she whispered faintly. 

The dark gaze Dolohov leveled on Severus was quite different from the concerned warmth he showed to the girl. “We start with simple touch. Take her hand.” 

Severus’s stomach clenched. He couldn’t do this. Could he? Holding hands. When was the last time someone had even touched his hand, to get his attention or hand him a flask or accidentally grab the same dish he was reaching for? Years. And she was a student! It was wrong, contemptible, career-ending. 

“Now,” commanded Dolohov. 

Hesitantly, he reached out. The girl was gripping her shins with her hands. Slowly, he slid his fingers under hers and grasped the delicate softness of her hand. A deep shudder went through her body and a whimpery sigh left her lips. Still, she remained hidden. 

“Stroke her hand with your thumb.” 

Severus complied, his thumb rubbing softly over the fragile bones of her knuckles. She shivered again. 

“Severus, start a fire in the fireplace. And summon a blanket.” 

He frowned and reached for his wand with his other hand. With a quick flick, he lit the fire. Another swish had a blanket from his bed flying over. 

“Wrap it around her. We need to warm her up.” 

Awkwardly, he draped his blanket around her with one hand, cringing slightly as he wondered the last time he washed it…or rather, gave it to the elves to wash. He rarely let them into his private space, preferring to clean his room and his things himself. Laundering his black Professor robes was acceptable, but blankets and bed clothes were more personal, somehow. 

She unfurled herself to let him cover her, still keeping her hand in his as if breaking the tentative link between the two of them might shatter her further. 

“Are you all right?” he had the courage to whisper in her ear as he put the blanket over her shoulders. 

She finally looked at him with wide brown eyes encircled in bluish bruises and shook her head. 

“I am dying,” she whispered. 

“No, little dove,” said Dolohov in a warm, teasing voice. “You are not dying. I know it feels horrible now, moya milaya, but you will feel much better soon,” said Dolohov. 

To Severus, he said, “Her arm. Trail your fingers up and down her arm.”

Her skin was like paper and he was almost afraid that pieces of her would flake off from his touch. She closed her eyes, the ever-present tears still continuing their salty stream down her face. What the fuck was this curse? He was sure she had not been like this a few weeks ago. And certainly not two years ago when Dolohov had blasted her in the chest. She had been quieter in his class recently, yes, but still turning in higher than adequate essays, still making perfectly fine potions. And she looked…normal…as far as he could recall. 

She shuddered again. “It hurts,” she moaned, and Severus looked up at Dolohov with raised eyebrows. 

“It is not enough,” Dolohov said and hardened his gaze. “Her clothes. Vanish them, Severus.” 

Severus reared back, wrenching his hand away and standing. She screamed as the connection was lost and fell back on the sofa, writhing in pain. 

“How dare you!” roared Severus. “I will do no such thing! 

“Enough.” Dolohov’s voice snapped over him and Severus pressed his mouth shut. “You will touch her, Severus. You will bring her to orgasm with your fingers and you will do it now.” His voice was deep and magnetic…hypnotic. Severus felt his cock rise within his trousers. Without thinking, he strode over to the girl, knelt down, and flicked his wand. Her clothes disappeared. 

“Please,” she begged through sobs. 

Severus reached out his hands and paused, shaking. He couldn’t force them any further. Panic flared through his mind. He didn’t–he didn’t know–how–

“Severus, tell me.” 

“I’ve never done this,” he confessed, shame making his ears burn red. 

The girl let out a heart-stopping keen, weeping, weeping…

She rubbed her thighs together and cried out again as if the movement had been painful. 

“Put your hands on her shoulders,” ordered Dolohov. Magnetic. This time, his hands moved forward. He placed them on her shoulders. She was still so cold but as soon as his hands made contact, she let out a deep, shuddering sigh and calmed. “Good boy.” A drop of precum welled at the tip of his cock and seeped into his underwear. 

“Run your hands down to her breasts, softly. Slowly.” Hypnotic. She moaned as his fingers grazed over her nipples. A moan of pleasure. A soft exhale left his throat and his cock throbbed. 

“Yes, very good. Tease her nipples with your fingers. Cup the softness of her breasts. Kiss them, Severus.” Mesmerizing. 

He…obeyed. Oh Salazar, did he obey. Her skin heated under his touch. Her nipples became rosy and hardened into tight little buds. Her breasts felt heavy in the palms of his hands. He lifted them gently and rubbed his thumb over her nipple. 

“Yes, oh please, Dolohov,” she begged. “More…” 

Severus leaned forward and pressed a featherlight kiss upon the fullness of her breast, right above her nipple. She cried out and pressed closer. 

“Take her nipple into her mouth, moy prints…Yes, suck it, just like that. Watch her. See her back arch? Her chest lift? She is so beautiful, yes?”

“Beautiful,” murmured Severus, lifting his lips from her delectable nipple. To his surprise, her skin had tasted…sweet. 

The girl whimpered at the praise, turning her darkened eyes from Dolohov’s portrait to Severus. Shaking, she shifted, offering her other breast to Severus’s lips. Eyes on hers, he bent and sucked it into his mouth, running his tongue over the tight bud of her nipple. 

“Ah, very lovely, my beauties. Severus, join her on the sofa and pull her back against your chest. Good, yes, up like that. I see that glare for taking you from our dove’s breast, but don’t you think our good girl deserves relief?” 

Severus found himself nodding, caught in whatever dark spell Dolohov had woven over them. The girl wiggled her bum against his hardness and moaned once more. He was still fully clothed, buttoned up to his neck, long sleeves, holding the girl close as she shivered and writhed, bare and beautiful, over the soft wool of his robes. Pale, glistening skin against dull black fabric. The contrast made him ache with…fuck, he didn’t know. If he thought too hard, it was overwhelming. Confusing. 

Dolohov’s voice cut through the noise. “Reach your hand around her hip and run your fingers through her curls, up and down. Spread your legs, my sweet. Yes, very good, my beauties. Severus, dip your fingers into her cunt. You shall find it wet for you.” 

He marveled at the silk of her arousal slipping through his fingers. He touched her…within. Fuck, it was so inimate, he felt like he might shatter into a thousand pieces. His body hurt . Fear and want battled within his chest. The voice, he thought frantically. Listen to the voice. 

“Find her clitoris, Severus. Higher, yes, watch her. Pay attention. You will let him know he has found it, little dove, won’t you? With your beautiful cries and sweet wimpers.” 

As soon as his finger drifted across the little raised nub at the apex of her cunt, she gasped and arched her back, causing him to immediately lose the spot in all of her dripping slickness. 

“Grip her hip with your other hand, Severus. Good. Must keep our eager girl in place, yes?” His voice was a growl, a rasp, both soothing and grating, and it melted over Severus like honey. 

“Yes,” he whispered, gripping her tightly. His other hand slid up and down the slippery depths of her cunt and he felt a spot–just there–that he could—

“Fuck her with your fingers, moy prints. Slip them inside as if they are your cock, thrust them, grind them into her walls. Yes, you feel that?” 

He felt it. Rough and raised and when he pressed upon it, she wailed, her eyes fierce and pleading upon Dolohov’s painted face. 

“Back to her clit. Can you find it with your thumb while you continue pumping your fingers, clever Prince? I know you can do it.” 

Severus flushed hotly and shifted his hand, reaching his thumb up to flick across the swollen bud of her clit. Loud, whimpering breaths heaved out of her as she shook within his arms, tightened over his fingers, clamping, oh fuck, his dick throbbing, dripping. 

“Good, Severus. Don’t. Stop.”

He continued his pace, falling into her gasps, mesmerized by the velvet grasp of her cunt. He imagined it clutching at his cock as he thrust within her warm, wet depths. 

Suddenly, she tensed, every muscle of her body clenched, her breath peaked and held, and then—

And then—

“COME,” roared Dolohov. 

And she exploded in his arms like a flower bursting into bright, vivid color. Her pussy squeezed his fingers in wild pulses and her hands reached down to grip his wrist, locking him in place as she rode out her climax with rolling hips. He ran his gaze down her shaking chest, her swaying, delectable breasts, her shivering stomach, the thatch of soft, downy curls now wet with her own come. Eventually she calmed and melted into Severus. He realized he was still tightly gripping her hip and let go. She let out a small noise of protest, prompting him to place his arm carefully around her middle. 

“Ah, so beautiful. Severus, slowly pull out your fingers. She is sensitive now, my Prince.” 

He did and rubbed his fingertips together, marveling at the dewy slickness coating them. Her come . He had made her come !

“Taste it, Severus. Bring your fingers to your lips and suck.” 

The girl sighed and looked up at him with soft, heavy eyes. 

Slowly, Severus brought his fingers to his lips and drew them into his mouth. He groaned, closing his eyes. Sweet and heady and unlike anything he had ever tasted. His aching cock throbbed once more. 

“Delicious, yes?” 

“Yes,” he breathed. He licked off every drop under Dolohov’s careful scrutiny. 

“Ah, our girl sleeps. Carry her to the bed, Severus and return to the sofa. Gently!” 

Some of the haze cleared from his mind as he lifted the girl in his arms and carried her to his bed. He laid her down on the usually empty side and watched as she curled up into the space, clutching his blanket in her fists. Her cheeks were pink now, her breaths deep and even as she slept. 

“Sevvy,” called Dolohov. “We are not finished.” 

Severus returned to the sofa and sat, lifting wary eyes to Dolohov. What more could the portrait possibly want? He had complied with every order despite breaking every rule of decorum he possessed. God, he was depraved! He half expected lightning to fork from the ceiling and strike him down. And he deserved it! This was madness and a storm of agony began building in his chest. He would have to—

“Open your trousers,” Dolohov growled, interrupting his wild thoughts. 

What? No! He couldn’t be suggesting…

“You did not think I would leave you in such a state after you were so good, my Prince? So obedient. You have earned relief.” 

Anxiety curled into his gut as he regarded Dolohov with fearful anticipation. Severus rarely took himself in hand. He always enjoyed the pleasure of an orgasm, yes, but the sickening, desperate shame that accompanied it usually deterred him. He didn’t know exactly where it came from, the need to shower and scrub himself bloody after masturbation, and he tried not to think about it too hard, but it was likely related to his hazy, fucked up childhood. 

“I can’t,” he choked out and tears blurred his vision. 

“You will listen to me, Severus, and follow my commands,” the voice whipped out. “It is not you who does this, but me, your dominant, rewarding you for being so good as you helped our little dove.” 

Severus shook his head miserably. 

“Open your trousers.” Dolohov’s voice softened into a warm pool of water, enveloping Severus, dulling the shameful taunts within his mind. 

Still shaking his head, Severus obeyed, his fingers brushing against his hard cock as he unbuttoned his trousers. He let out a soft groan. 

“Good. Draw it out, my Prince. Yes, such a beautiful cock. Use your wand to lubricate your hand. Ah, you know the spell! Very good, Severus. Now wrap your hand around yourself and begin stroking.” 

Severus was fully submerged within the voice, Dolohov’s voice, and sighed as it flowed around him in gentle currents. He stroked his cock slowly, drawing out his pleasure. He was already so aroused from his time with the girl that an orgasm lay in wait, ready to pounce at the first sign of desperate movement. 

“There is no shame in this, Severus. Only pleasure, yes?” 

He found himself slowly nodding, stroking...stroking…oh it felt so good. Tingles trailed down his body in a decadent wave, gathering warmth low in his stomach. He closed his eyes. 

“That’s it. So good, sweet Prince. Think of our little dove, Severus. Her scent, her taste on your lips. She was heaven, was she not? An instrument to be played by sensitive fingers, and my Prince, you played her so well. Remember how she cried out when she came? How she tightened around your fingers and gushed her sweetness down your hands?” 

“Ahh!” Severus growled as he came, thrusting wildly into his hand. His spend splattered across his chest and stomach, more than he had ever come, more than he thought possible. 

“Beautiful, malen'kaya lan'.” 

He lay there, his long limbs sprawled across the sofa, and sucked in deep breaths of cool air. Already, the impulse to stand and trudge to the shower prickled at his neck. Shameful. Deviant. Sick. He yanked up his trousers and buttoned them with violent twitches of his fingers. 

“Severus.” 

His head snapped up to meet Dolohov’s emerald green gaze. The paint flickered in the firelight. 

“Get in bed with our witch.” 

A protest welled up. “No, I must—”

“No. I will allow you to shower after a nap. Our little dove will need tending to as well. Right now, you will get in bed, put your arm across her waist, and you will rest.” 

Relief poured through him as he simply followed the command. He climbed into bed, gingerly laid his arm across the girl, and closed his eyes. She sighed in her sleep and wiggled closer until her back was once again pressed against his chest. Severus drifted off feeling strangely safe, if not a bit too warm. 

Chapter Text

He woke up disoriented. There was a woman in his bed and she was looking straight at him. He blinked, trying to wipe away the dream because this was most certainly not reality. She reached across and moved a lock of his hair from his forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. 

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He had never felt such a gentle touch before and the softness was almost painful. His throat bobbed as he wrestled with the uncomfortable emotions welling up from her simple touch. He Occluded, shoving them back into their tiny box. 

“My beauties are awake,” crowed Dolohov from the wall. The girl’s eyes shifted past him and she smiled. It was small and sad, but Severus could tell it was real. He had seen her smile a few times over the years when she was with her friends…cheering when Gryffindor beat Slytherin in Quidditch or laughing at the antics of a certain red-headed duo. He vaguely wondered what it might be like to see her face lit up and glowing with happiness up close. 

“Together, you will go take a shower,” ordered Dolohov. “Wash each other. Be gentle. Nothing untoward, yes? This is for comfort.” 

“Yes, Sir,” said the girl softly. 

“No, my dove, call me Antonin,” he crooned. “You look so beautiful after pleasure and rest. Are you feeling better?” 

Severus watched as she nodded shyly. “More myself,” she said. 

“Severus?” 

Severus ignored him. He sighed heavily, sat up in bed, and swung his legs to the side. Might as well get the impending humiliation over with. Dolohov had said the effects of the curse would last days and Severus feared he could not commit to continuing this…thing. It was too much. An overwhelming invasion of new and unknown feelings he could neither process nor control. His heart began pounding and acid pumped through his veins. A whiff of her scent reached his nose and he looked down at his shaking hands. He noticed there was a white stain crusted on his robes and he recoiled, the memory of a deep voice rasping devilish commands while he—he—oh god! 

He was unclean. Dirty. Defiled. 

“Sevvy.” 

“What?” he snarled back. 

“Shower.” 

His skin crawled with the need to scrub off the sickness that wrapped around his body, squeezing the breath out of him. Everytime he felt something good, he also felt like dying. Fuck that damned voice ripping through his barriers and reaching closer and closer to the open wound bleeding within his heart.

“I am getting thoroughly sick of these orders, you arrogant bastard!” he exploded. “This is too much. Get out. Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Behind him, the girl made a small noise of fear. 

Dolohov stalked close to the frame of his portrait. He absorbed Severus’s glare with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. “Relief is what I offer, if you are man enough to accept my care, Severus,” he said calmly. “And if you contain even an ounce of empathy, you will look past your own pain and keep your dark eyes firmly affixed to the young woman in your bed who needs us both desperately.” 

“But why,” he ground out, the red of his fury pulsing at the edge of his vision. “Why does it have to be me?” 

“The curse demands it.” 

“That is not an answer, goddammit!” 

“I will discuss this after you take Hermione for a shower. She hasn’t been able to fully bathe in weeks.” 

Severus gaped at him and the anger left him in a rush of air that expelled harshly from his lungs. Weeks? Why the fuck not? He glanced down at the girl. She was wrapped in his blanket, eyes wide and terrified as she watched their exchange. 

“Tell him.” 

She cringed away and then spoke in a whisper. “It hurt. Being naked, under the water. It was too much. Too much skin, too many opportunities to…touch.”

He took a few deep breaths to temper the fury still lingering in his voice. “What exactly is the nature of the curse?” he asked through clenched teeth. 

Her face grew thoughtful and he got a glimpse of the witch she had been before….whatever happened a month ago to turn her into a weeping, shriveled mess. She looked up at Dolohov.

“It appears to be sexual,” she said softly, her cheeks turning pink. “I grow increasingly desperate for relief but anytime I try to touch myself or take care of it with my wand, it only causes pain. I thought…” 

“What, my dove?” prompted Dolohov gently. 

“I thought I was going insane. I started taking potions, reading mind healing books, experimenting with different spells. None of it worked. A few weeks ago, I tried to use the Imperius curse on Neville—” she choked and lost her words as a sob wrenched from her throat. She swallowed thickly. “After that, I locked myself in my room. Everything grew hazy. And…I think I went mad. I don’t really remember. Then, you came for me, Antonin.” 

“Oh my sweet little dove, such pain. Such heartache. I am sorry I didn’t find you sooner.” His voice was deep and filled with regret. 

The girl carefully took Severus’s hand. “And you. You saved me too, Professor.” 

He glared down at their clasped hands, trying desperately to forget how exactly he ‘saved’ her. Touched a student. Twenty years younger. Lecherous fool. Dirty. Despicable. 

“And how does it feel, having had release?” asked Dolohov. 

She paused for a moment, thinking. “The constant ache has been pushed far back in my mind. It’s still there. Still growing, but I can think clearly again.” 

“And touching Severus now?” 

She flashed him a frightened look and his heart lurched. “Helps,” she whispered hesitantly. 

“Take her for a shower, Sevvy, and after I will give you the answer you seek,” said Dolohov. Severus knew that tone. There was no arguing further.

He sighed again and helped the girl from the bed, feeling exhausted from his outburst. She was still naked and clutched the blanket tightly around her small form. He led her into the bathroom and reached back to close the door. She made a sound of protest. 

“Open, Severus,” called Dolohov with a warm thread of humor in his voice, as if they were planning something naughty. Severus rolled his eyes but complied. 

They were beyond Dolohov’s sight, but clearly not beyond his hearing. How much could portraits glean from their surroundings? How was it possible for him to act so human? No portrait had behaved this way in Severus’s presence. Even Dumbledore’s likeness was relatively quiet, mostly napping and, every now and then, waking to give sage advice or nod knowingly during a tense conversation with Minerva. 

Voldemort used to call Dolohov his Death Crafter. It was he whom the Dark Lord would turn to for newly invented hexes, curses that had no counter, spells that flayed wizards from the inside out. Dolohov wove together madness and brilliance and shot them from his wand in tidal waves of pain and power. Severus had once suspected he was the only wizard Voldemort feared, yet for some reason, Dolohov always did what he was told without question. Right up until he mysteriously died in the Battle of Hogwarts. No body was found—his death had just become fact, somehow, through word of mouth perhaps? Severus didn’t remember. He didn’t remember quite a bit from that time. He had been pulled in so many directions, it was a marvel he hadn’t dissolved into madness himself. 

The girl squeezed his hand and his mind jumped back to the present. He turned on the shower and gave the old Muggle system time to warm up the water. The stall wasn’t large so it was going to be a squeeze for both of them to fit. His bathtub would’ve been a better option. It was huge—more like a sunken pool— built into the back section of the bathroom. 

She stepped into the spray first, reluctantly letting go of his hand. With a sick feeling in his gut, he slowly stripped down to his black briefs. His cheeks burned, but the girl had her eyes closed as she stood under the water, her face a picture of pure bliss. 

“I know you’re hesitating in there, Severus,” came a teasing voice from the far wall. “Take them off.” 

Flipping the portrait an obscene gesture, he gracelessly yanked down his underwear and flung them through the doorway. 

“Fuck you, Dolohov,” he muttered. Laughter floated in from the room beyond. 

He stepped into the shower with the girl. Hermione, he told himself. Hermione. It was the only way that he could, perhaps, separate her from the student warning bell that rang in his head every time he thought ‘Miss Granger’. He took the washcloth from its hook and lathered it with his soap. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and Hermione opened her eyes. “May I?” he asked. 

She nodded and turned so her back was facing him. The bones of her spine were prominent. Three weeks alone, locked in her room. Had she managed to eat anything? He mentally groaned at the idea of having to contact the elves and order food from the kitchens, but she needed to eat as soon as they got out of this mortifying shower. 

He carefully pressed the washcloth to her back and began circling it over her skin. 

“That feels nice,” she murmured. 

He turned to Occlusion to help him wash the rest of her body. He floated away into the depths of his mind as he ran the soapy cloth over her curves and down her legs. He knelt and pulled her foot onto his knee. He washed between each toe while she watched with wide, grateful eyes. Then, he made his way back up the front of her legs…several gentle swipes against the soft thatch between her legs…soapy lather dripping down her breasts…he smoothed the cloth over her arms…into her armpits. He wiped every one of her fingers. It was a dream, he told himself from far away. Fleeting. This feeling of deep satisfaction as he cared for another human being would not last. It never did.  

“My turn,” she whispered. 

“I can wash myself,” he protested in a low voice.

She shook her head. “It’s what he would want.” 

Severus blinked. Dolohov? No. He didn’t care one bronze Knut about Severus. He was using him to help the girl he had destroyed with his horrific, perverted curse. 

“For you to be cared for,” she added, pressing a freshly lathered washcloth to his chest. Slowly, carefully, as if he was a skittish unicorn, she gave him the same treatment he had given her. He Occluded once more as she grazed soapy bubbles over his soft, hanging cock…as she slid the cloth over his buttocks…as she pressed her hands to his biceps and led the cloth down the length of his arms. She also cleaned his feet and his hands, massaging soap into them with stronger pressure than he expected from one so weak and sick. 

He found himself relaxing under her slow, careful touch and eventually, he let his mind creep its way back to the forefront. 

“Hair,” he murmured. 

He took the shampoo bottle from the shelf and squirted a hefty dollop into his hand. She turned obligingly and he began rubbing it into her dripping curls. The intimacy of washing her hair took his breath away, somehow more so than cleaning every inch of her body. He massaged her scalp and she moaned and dropped her head back against his chest. Her eyes were closed. So much trust. It terrified him. He would hurt her. That’s what he did. Hurt people. Whether it was through anger, neglect, coldness, cutting remarks, vicious sneers. Push them away, his instincts chanted. They loathe you. You are nothing. A tool. Push them away and stand alone as you deserve. 

Her head moved back into the steamy spray as he helped her rinse out the thick lather of now brown-tinged shampoo. All manner of dirt and sweat swirled down the drain and what was left were long, wet curls that fell to the middle of the girl’s back. He pictured them slowly springing back up into the typical wild cloud she had over her head on any given day and then dropped his hands to his sides. 

“Will you kneel, please?” she asked softly. 

“I can just–”

“Please?” she interrupted, and then flinched as if he might snap at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but he just couldn’t watch her face tense into pain when it was so beautifully open and relaxed. Without speaking, he knelt down on one knee and lowered his head. She massaged the soap into the strands of his hair. He practically dozed during her gentle ministrations. It was oddly calming to feel her fingers tugging through his hair and all too soon, she was done. 

His hair was shorter than his usual shoulder length. Nagini was to blame for the loathsome change. After the Basilisk’s bite, the wound was all he could see every time he glanced at a mirror—and mirrors were fucking everywhere in Hogwarts. Shortening his hair was dramatic enough to draw his eye away for the time it took for the wound to heal and fade and then he had just kept it short, too heartsick to go back to his old look. 

He rose stiffly and ducked under the spray for one final rinse. She had already stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel when he finally opened his eyes. She handed him another and moved into the main room, leaving him in blessed privacy. 

“There’s a screen,” he called gruffly. “Some robes…” 

He heard Dolohov speaking to her in a low voice as he dried himself and dressed back in the one set of clean robes he kept in the bathroom closet. He glanced down at the dirty, come-crusted heap of black on the floor and quickly vanished it away. 

“Sofa please, my damp-haired beauties,” the portrait said cheerfully when Severus emerged. Hermione came from behind the screen dressed in a loose dark red sweatshirt so long it reached her knees and black leggings underneath. There was a bit of delicate gold trimming around the edges and he was slightly impressed by her transfiguration skills. You can take the girl out of Gryffindor, he thought with an internal sneer, but you can’t take the Gryffindor, oh well…he rolled his eyes at his own rambling thoughts.  

They both sat at the same time and Hermione took his hand in hers. Her hair was already drying and she looked like a different person from the one who had entered his room hours before.  

“Tell me how you’re feeling, little dove,” prompted Dolohov. 

“So much better,” she said softly, running her thumb over Severus’s index finger. He tried to ignore the tingle that danced over his hand. “Clearer.” 

“Pain?” 

She shook her head. 

“Need?” 

She paused, an adorable wrinkle appearing in her forehead, before it smoothed and she shook her head again. 

“Not yet.” 

“I wonder how long it will last, little dove.”

She raised her shoulders in a small shrug. “I’ve never had…” She flushed. 

“Go on, moya milaya. Speak the truth here, always. It is safe. Yes, Severus?” 

Frowning, he gave a sharp nod. It annoyed him, this ‘yes, Severus.’ Did have any fucking choice? Did he want a choice? asked a darker voice within him. 

“I never had relief. That was my first orgasm.” 

“Since the manifestation of the curse?” asked Dolohov with surprise. 

Her hand clenched in his. “Ever,” she whispered. 

Severus turned to look at her in shock and swiftly turned back to face Dolohov. First ever? Fucking hell, had she never…?

“My theory, now, is the curse stopped me from the compulsion to try it myself, for a while,” she said, answering his question as if he had said it aloud. “But as soon as I returned to Hogwarts, something broke open. A need I had never felt. And it consumed me.” Her cheeks burned bright red but her voice was steady. 

“Oh, my little dove, I am so sorry.” 

“I want answers, Dolohov,” interrupted Severus, his patience growing thin. “What does this have to do with me?” 

“I cannot be sure.” 

Severus growled and rose halfway off the sofa, wand raised, before Dolohov quickly continued. 

“But, in many cases, the curses I crafted for the Dark Lord contained bonding agents.” 

“Bonding?” 

“Usually, the first person to touch the cursed individual was bound to him or her in some way,” he admitted, watching Severus carefully. 

“But I wasn’t the first person to…” he trailed off, eyes scanning wildly as he thought back to that night. The child had been levitated into the hospital wing and Poppy had been…yes, she had been wearing medical gloves. Many of the children brought in from the fight at the Department of Mysteries had been covered in blood. Severus had carried in an armful of potions and Poppy immediately sent him to sedate the girl. He had attempted a full body bind, but she had grabbed–oh god–she had grabbed his wrist before he could restrain her. 

“It was me,” he said in a horrified whisper. “I touched her first after the curse.” 

Dolohov nodded slowly and Hermione turned to look at him, frowning as if her mind was whirring through the implications of a bond. “But what does that mean?” she asked the portrait. 

“It means when you returned to Hogwarts this year, sat down in Potions class, and saw Professor Snape, the magic of the curse snapped within you. The bonding agent wanted you to touch, to join together, and the longer you resisted, not knowing that was what you were doing, the angrier the magic became.” 

“You act as if the curse is sentient!” 

“No. Not quite,” said Dolohov. “But potent. Powerful. Dark.” He had the good sense to look ashamed because Severus was a breath away from hexing the living shit out of Dolohov’s stupid, painted face! He should have hidden his magical talent from Voldemort. Or at least built in a secret counter that would break each deadly, vile curse! And even if he had, the real Antonin was dead now and the painting was sure to be an ignorant facsimile. Paintings lacked brains, for fuck’s sake. 

“What does it mean to be bonded?” asked Hermione and in that moment, he was thankful for her brilliant mind and unrelenting curiosity. She would ask the questions he was too angry to voice. 

“It means that I was right. You must weather the curse together. When the need for climax arises, only Severus will be able to satisfy you.” 

“Fuck,” he muttered and glowered at Dolohov. 

“How often?” she asked faintly. 

Dolohov shrugged. “I do not know. It was the only time I used this curse. It was experimental.” 

“And you chose to experiment on a child?! Why the fuck were you creating such a thing for the Dark Lord?” snapped Severus. Hermione’s fingers tightened on his, soothing his ire with soft strokes. 

Letting out a hiss of disgust, Dolohov shrugged again. “I can only imagine. I–I was caught up in the science of it…and I did not question him. One of my many mistakes.” 

“How do we break the curse?” asked Hermione. 

“I do not know.” 

“GODDAMN—”

“But I have a plan!” Dolohov finished quickly. 

“You’d better,” muttered Severus, slumping back. 

“Give him a chance,” said Hermione, frowning at him. 

“How can you defend him? He put us in this horrific position!” 

“It’s horrific to be bound to me?” she asked in a small voice. 

He let out a harsh sigh. “You know what I meant,” he growled. 

“Enough,” said Dolohov sharply. “We need to find out everything related to the curse. Little dove, you will keep a detailed journal of how you are feeling and note any changes throughout the day. Sevvy, you will do the same and we will discuss our findings at the evening meal. We will track when the need arises, what is used to fulfill it, and the aftereffects. Meanwhile, you should still be able to teach, Sevvy, and you should still be able to attend class, my snowflake. However, I require you both to sleep here in the evenings. It will help alleviate the pain of the bond to be in close proximity.” 

“FUCK THE BOND,” roared Severus. He stood and wrenched his hand out of the girl’s grip. “How dare you put us in this position, you evil, disgusting piece of Russian shit!” Severus lifted his wand. “I am done. I want you out of my room. I want you stricken from that hideous frame you occupy. I want your canvas turned to ash! Goodbye, Dolohov.” 

“Stop!” screamed Hermione, launching forward to grab his arm. “Don’t, you fool! Can’t you see he’s the only one who can save us? He’s all we have!” 

“No,” sneered Severus, his eyes never leaving Dolohov’s. “We can figure this out on our own.” 

“You’ll send me away,” she choked out. “You won’t be able to touch me without him. I’ll have to go back to that room. L-lock myself in. I’ll die from this, Professor. I was telling the truth. I am dying.” 

Severus froze. 

“She is right, my Prince. Without you, her mind will quickly devolve into chaos and it will lead to her death,” Dolohov said solemnly. “Will you be able to touch her without my command? If so, do it. Right now. I give you leave to place a kiss on her neck.” 

Enough. Severus willed movement into his limbs and strode away, into the bathroom. He angrily slammed the door and then huddled in the far side of the empty bathing pool. ‘You’ll send me away,’ she had said and he knew, with shame in his belly, that it was true. Already, the itch for space and solitude was crawling over him like spiders. ‘Will you be able to touch her without my command?’ No. He couldn’t even touch himself without Dolohov guiding him, let alone the girl. Fuck! 

Murmured voices began speaking in the other room. There was no way he was going back out there to face his angry words and his subsequent humiliation. No fucking way. 

Eventually, there came a soft knock on the bathroom door. 

“Professor?” 

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered to the empty room. 

It wasn’t possible she heard him, so he was surprised when she said, “What would you prefer?” 

“How is it you’re hearing me?” he said, even softer. 

“I don’t know.” There was a pause. “The bond?” 

“The fucking bond.” Sighing, he rose and wearily walked to the door. He opened it, startling the girl on the other side, who blushed prettily. Prettily? He wanted to hit something. 

“Just call me Severus, I suppose,” he said. “At least until this is all over.” 

She gave him a small smile and lifted one shoulder. “I guess this means you think we can end the curse?” 

“It means I won’t rest until we do,” he growled, glaring at Dolohov over her shoulder, who smiled delightedly at him. 

“Oh, very good,” he said cheerfully. “So you’ll follow my instructions? And Sevvy, you will rest. I’ll make sure of it.” 

“I’ll follow your ‘instructions’ within reason,” clarified Severus, despite knowing that it was pointless to try to wrest even an ounce of control from the situation. He had no choice but to follow everything Dolohov said. For the girl, yes, but knowing now that his own life was tied to the curse meant he would do anything, fucking anything, to break it and free himself. 

“So what’s next? I have so much work to catch up on,” said Hermione, somewhat impatiently. “Can I please go to the library?”

It irked him that she was asking him permission, as if Dolohov’s dominance had spilled into her day-to-day routine. He would find a quiet moment to remind her that she had every right to do whatever the fuck she wanted. 

Dolohov laughed. “I am pleased to see your focus returning, little dove. It is late afternoon, yes? You may have two hours in the library and then you must return. Do you need anything from your room, dear girl?” 

“Some of my things would be nice, if I’m going to be spending so much time here,” she said. She was always one to think practically, even if she was a little know-it-all. 

“Library, back to your room to pack a bag, and then straight here.” 

“Yes, Antonin.” 

“If you get held up, send your Patronus.” 

“Yes, Antonin.” 

“And if you feel the need rise up, return immediately.” 

“Yes, Antonin.” Her voice took on an edge of exasperation. 

“All right, off you go.” 

She smiled up at the portrait and gave a half-hearted little wave before bouncing to the door and leaving with an almost forgotten, “Bye, Severus.” 

“Amazing what an orgasm and a shower can do, yes Severus?” And Dolohov let out a deep, hearty laugh. 

“Don’t act like everything is fine now,” he hissed at the portrait. “I loathe you. I fucking hate the position that you’ve placed me in and I can tell you right now, this isn’t going to end well. The girl is going to suffer.” 

Dolohov frowned. “Come now, Sevvy, I don’t think even you would be deliberately cruel to her. The curse can be broken, I know it. We simply need to discover the way.” 

Severus clenched his fists. “Can you just–leave–forever, preferably?” he ground out. “Or at least for a few hours?”

Dolohov laughed. “All right, dear Prince, I’ll make myself scarce while our little dove is gone,” and he strode out of the portrait. 

A familiar silence settled over the room. “Thank Salazar,” Severus muttered. Then, he looked around feeling lost. What had he planned for the day before he was so rudely interrupted by a smug portrait and a broken young woman? He searched his mind. There was…nothing. 

Before the war, back when he was a young professor, he would work in his lab on the weekends. Running experiments on his own newly invented potions and taking copious and careful notes as he did. Now, he had lost all interest in such endeavors, the thought of it only making him tired. He sat heavily on his bed and lay down, curling up. The blankets smelled of her. He buried his nose into the pillow she had slept upon and breathed in. Sweet. Delicate. Intoxicating. He groaned. 

Damn Dolohov. Damn his deep voice and his evil machinations. Severus lay there, in bed, smelling the girl and gathering his courage to go find his Muggle razor blade and slice into his thighs. The pain was too much. The agony of what was to come swirled within his mind like a tornado. A bond? No. Severus Snape did not bond. Sex? No. Severus Snape did not participate in intimacy of any kind. The shame such a thing would inflict upon him would be unbearable. Antonin Dolohov rasping orders at him in that deep, gravelly voice? Fuck him and his power over Severus. His commands both hurt and soothed him and he hated the paradox of his feelings towards the man…portrait…whatever. 

Severus stared up at the ceiling miserably. It was so quiet. 

“Accio Firewhiskey,” he summoned. And then sent it spinning back to the cabinet. He needed to keep his wits about him. He rolled onto his side and looked out of the window. His room was about midway up the castle and he could just see a small slice of the Black Lake in the far distance. Sometimes he imagined he could hear it. Endless waves crashing against the rocks. 

It reminded him of a rare childhood vacation with his parents. His father had been on a ‘fix himself and be a good dad’ kick and had stopped drinking for two months in the summer. They had gone to the seaside to celebrate. Severus hated the days out in the sun, the feel of his pale skin burning as he sat awkwardly in the shifting sand. But at night, sitting out on the porch of their rented bungalow, he had loved the sound of the ocean. The waves had echoed around him as he looked up at the wide swath of sparkling stars and it felt like being in a dream. An alternate reality where everything was warm and beautiful and safe. Alas, as soon as they returned to their depressing home at Spinner’s End, his father had immediately run to the pub to see his mates, and it all derailed once more. 

Breathing in more of her scent, Severus curled up comfortably and summoned a dusty, old book from his shelf, “Curses of the Damned”. And he did something which had not done in quite a while. He read in bed. And when he grew tired of the words, he let the book slip down and he watched the birds swoop and call outside his window and the wind flutter the last few leaves clinging to the trees. He realized later that he never did indulge in the razor blade and his heart gave a little throb of pride. 

*****

His room bloomed into life when they both returned—Hermione through his door with a satchel thrown across her body and Dolohov appearing within the gilded frame of his portrait. 

“Appropriate reading choice, I see,” chuckled Dolohov when he saw the book laying on the bed. 

“Oh it was so good to get some work done,” sighed Hermione and she flopped down on the sofa, tucking one leg under her. 

“Such a brilliant little dove, yes?” Dolohov twinkled at her and she blushed and rolled her eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked in a more serious voice. 

She frowned and slowly nodded. “Good. Still in control.” 

“Very good. Now, my beauties, why don’t you check the table by the kitchen and see what your Antonin has done for you?” he said with a sly smile. 

Hermione immediately jumped up and made her way to the kitchen area. Severus sighed and rose from the bed, placing the book on his bedside table with a heavy thunk. 

“Oh, Antonin! This looks lovely. But how did you manage?” 

“The elves have a few paintings down in the kitchen. One of them contains a dear friend. Did you know all kitchen tables in the Professors’ quarters are magically connected to the Hogwarts kitchen?” 

She shook her head in wonder and Severus blinked with surprise. They did? No one had told him that. For 16 fucking years, nobody said a damn thing! Was he that unapproachable? To think of all the times he could’ve had a hot meal within the comfort of his room instead of sitting at the unbearable head table…fucking hell, it made him furious! 

On the table was a spread of simple but delicious food. Crusty, buttered bread, tomato soup, a thick wedge of good, French cheese, and a small salad. There was also wine, and he glanced back to frown at Dolohov, who winked at him. 

“She is an adult,” he mouthed at Severus. 

He sat across from Hermione. They could still see Dolohov across the room, but it felt strange for him to be so far away. Would he call to them from across the room? No, that would be awkward. And exceedingly annoying. 

“Should we just move the table?” suggested Hermione. Had he said his thoughts aloud? That was the second time today it was as if she could hear him thinking. 

Severus nodded and stood up once again. He flicked his wand and levitated the table while Hermione tried not to be obvious as she kept an eye on the soup, as if he might slosh it out of the bowl. She should know better. He had the steadiest potion hands in the business. 

They sat once again and Dolohov preened at the ‘head’ of the table. “Such sweet little doves,” he said cheerfully. “I shall have to reward you more often.” 

Severus ignored him. He put his head down and began eating his soup as if it was a chore. One spoonful after another. He hardly tasted it. 

“This is delicious,” said Hermione. She sighed shakily. 

“How long had it been?” asked Dolohov gently. 

She fidgeted with her spoon for a moment before answering. “I had some food in stasis for a while. And when it got desperate, I summoned a meal from the kitchen.” She hunched her shoulders. “The elves like me too.” 

A sad smile crossed her face, as if she was lost in a memory. Didn’t she have some ridiculous crusade about the elves one year? V.O.M.I.T. or something of the like? 

“But this and the snack you sent to the library are the first two things I’ve eaten in the past two days,” she said in a voice so quiet, Severus wondered how Dolohov heard her. 

The portrait cleared his throat. “Well that ends now,” he said in a slightly strained voice. “Regular meals, my dove, yes?” 

She nodded. “Eating is a logical thing,” she said, looking up at him. “The curse steals logic and leaves only desire.” 

Dolohov looked at her solemnly. “I will take care of you, moya milaya.” 

She did not respond to him and it made Severus wonder if perhaps Hermione wasn’t quite ready to fully trust him either, despite her eagerness to please him. He seemed to pick up on her caution and smiled broadly before launching into a colorful story about his childhood in Russia. 

After a while, Severus stopped focusing on words and let the soothing timbre of Dolohov’s voice wash over him. He continued to plod through his meal until, to his surprise, he found he had eaten almost everything. He blinked and looked over at the girl’s bowl which was also almost empty. She met his eyes and gave him a tentative smile. 

“I guess we were hungry,” she said with a soft huff of laughter. 

He bowed his head towards her in answer. Neither of them had touched the wine. He was too wary to be tipsy around either of them. She watched his eyes dart to the glass. 

“I just got my faculties back,” she said in explanation. “It made me sick to think of letting them go just for a glass of wine.” 

He nodded once more. 

“What would you like to do before bed, my kittens? A game? Another story?” 

“Actually…” started Hermione, twisting her hands in her lap. 

Severus’s stomach clenched and he immediately regretted eating so much. Was she going to ask for more…? Oh fuck. His heart began pounding. With dread or anticipation? He wasn’t sure. 

“I usually sit in bed and work on essays at this time of night. And I have so much to catch up on.” It all came out in a rush. Dolohov stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. 

“Oh yes, ved’mochka, of course. Sevvy, what will you do?” 

“Read.” 

“‘Read,’ he growls. You can talk to us, Sevvy, we will not judge your evening habits in your own home.” 

“I…read,” said Severus, frowning at his denseness. 

Dolohov rolled his eyes. “Then I shall make my rounds while you work, my dears.” 

“How many so-called ‘rounds’ do you make,” muttered Severus. 

“Much to keep track of in these hallowed halls, my Prince,” he twinkled at him. “I’ll be back to tuck you both in, metaphorically of course.” And with that he slipped away and Severus and Hermione were left to their own devices. 

Hermione did her work in bed, using a lap desk she had pulled from her bag as if it was completely normal to keep pieces of furniture in a satchel. Magically extended, he assumed, which bordered on illegal. He found the scratch of her quill soothing as he lost himself in the hideous curse book, at times shivering from the sheer depravity of some of the listed spells. There was a curse to slowly turn a person inside out, one inch at a time. He shuddered at a particularly strange curse that apparently witches used in the 19th century to force men, wizard and Muggle alike, to feel the pain of menstruation along with heavy bleeding from their penis for a full week. Another curse described a complex spell that would, over years, replace the blood in a wizard’s veins with water until they died. At one point, Hermione placed a hand against his back and he felt her warmth seep into his bones. She kept it there. And he did not protest.

At 10 o’clock on the dot, Dolohov reappeared and clapped his hands, startling them both. 

“Time for bed,” he sang in his deep baritone. 

“But,” protested Hermione, “I always work much later—”

“No, little dove. You are recovering and need your rest.” 

“We are adults, Dolohov. We can decide when to go to sleep,” said Severus, glaring. 

“My my, already my little doves try to disobey. When was the last time someone took care of either of you?” 

Hermione sighed and put down her quill. 

Severus turned his glare on her. “You’re giving in so easily? The girl I know would argue and spout a few facts about hours of sleep needed to fully function, et cetera.” 

She huffed a humorless little laugh at him. “I am not her anymore.” 

He blinked and turned back to Dolohov who was smiling indulgently at both of them. “Fucking fine,” snapped Severus and he set the book aside. 

Hermione went into the bathroom first while Severus stepped behind the screen to change. Dolohov hummed a little tune and settled himself on his background settee. There was a strange domesticity in the air as they all prepared for bed. Severus wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Hermione came out and he went in to do his evening bathroom routine. 

The room was lit by a single candle burning on the far bedside table when he emerged, casting a warm glow on the bed but not anywhere else. 

“Fuck,” he muttered as he immediately bashed his leg into the side of an end table. 

“Sorry,” said Hermione sheepishly. “Antonin thought the candlelight would be a nice way to wind down.” 

“Can he even see candlelight through paint?” mumbled Severus as he carefully picked his way across the room. 

He slid into bed with relief and curled away from the girl. It’s too much, he thought. I can’t do this. She shifted closer and pressed herself against his back, tucking her arm under his across his chest. A deep, shuddering sigh left his body and he felt her do the same thing. 

“There, there,” said Dolohov from the wall. “Peace and comfort, my darling couple. Spokoynoy nochi.” 

“Good night, Antonin,” murmured Hermione. Severus thought better of wishing Dolohov a decidedly bad night and a ‘go fuck yourself’ and chose to remain silent instead. 

*****

He dreamed of death all around him. Of fear and violence and the Dark Mark burning in the sky. He shivered in the frigid cold and resigned to the coming pain. Sure enough, his chest began to burn in bright, purplish flames that drew an agonized scream from his throat. 

“You have drifted apart, my loves,” came a warm, rich voice. A balm, soothing away the fiery pain. “Hold her, Severus, for it is her dream you are seeing and she needs you…” 

In his sleep he turned and reached across the ocean of his bed to find her, curled at the very edge. He pulled her to him, wrapping himself around her like a cocoon. She let out a soft cry and buried her head into his chest. He was strong. He had spent years fighting and enduring. He could protect her from the demons. 

The darkness faded away and they slept on. 

Chapter Text

Sunday was spent eating and working. The girl was quieter than he expected and he began to notice how thoroughly she lost herself in her studies. Her face as she worked and read was a wonder to behold, shifting through a kaleidoscope of interest, revelation, doubt, confusion, and understanding. She was so damn expressive and he found himself glancing at her often throughout the day just to see her beautiful face lit up with emotion. 

Dolohov, on the other hand, talked all fucking day. Long, involved stories, academic discussions, inappropriate jokes that made both Severus and Hermione blush while he roared with laughter. Severus waited impatiently for his daily trip around the castle portraits because it meant he finally left them in peace for an hour. Meals appeared on the enchanted table at regular intervals along with all manner of drinks and snacks and hot tea. Sunday night, Dolohov tucked them in once more with a broad, satisfied smile that lit up his painted face. 

“Oh what a lovely day, my studious little kittens. We must find time for an outdoor walk, yes? You both need sunshine on your pale faces. Tomorrow after work and school, my dears, I insist. Severus, turn your body and let her crawl in. Yes, very good. Is his arm around your hips comfortable, little dove? Eto zamechatel'no, snuggle close and feed the bond well. Goodnight, precious darlings.” 

“Goodnight, Antonin,” Hermione yawned and curled into Severus, enveloping him in a cozy warmth that was quickly becoming addicting. 

And so the days passed. 

A routine developed, despite Severus’s doubts that he would be able to tolerate the others in his space for a long period of time. Thankfully, Hermione did not require any more of his help over the following weeks. It seemed the curse was appeased by their close proximity at night. Both went about their days much like they had before. Hermione attended her classes and Severus taught his, though he found them to be less tedious than usual. He shocked himself by exhibiting patience with the first years, even the infuriating Gryffindor class who seemed to enjoy the old adage of “dump the volatile ingredient in the cauldron first, ask questions later” a little too much. 

It took another month for him to figure out that his newfound tolerance was likely due to the regular meals and copious amounts of sleep he was now getting, thanks to Antonin’s constant meddling. 

Antonin. He begrudgingly admitted that the ex-Death Eater seemed to have only their best interests at heart. He was warm and kind to the girl and teasingly indulgent of Severus’s taciturn nature and quiet brooding. Severus wondered how the fuck he never got angry, never snapped at him, even when he tried to goad him into reacting, which he attempted almost daily. Paintings, he decided, must have dulled emotions. 

Things were going smoothly, so it made sense that right before the winter holidays, it would all go to shit. 

“Severus!” roared Antonin, sliding into the small portrait of Aesop Sharp that hung in his classroom. He narrowed his eyes. Shit. He should’ve removed that weeks ago. Antonin’s hair was disheveled and his eyes were wild. “WHERE ARE YOU?” 

Severus’s entire class of third years stood frozen, hovering over their cauldrons.  

“Excuse me,” snapped Severus. “You are interrupting a rather delicate moment in our potion, Dolohov.” 

A student gasped at the mention of the Death Eater’s name. 

“Dismiss them early,” urged Antonin. “Do it, Sev…Professor. It’s an emergency.” 

Severus glared at him then addressed his students. “I will reschedule this potion with your Head of House. It will require an extra class.” 

Someone in the back let out a groan before he was immediately shushed by a housemate. “He’ll take points,” someone else whispered angrily at the groaner. Severus almost smirked. 

Across the room, still crowding poor Sharp in his small frame, Antonin gave him mooncalf eyes, silently and desperately pleading for him to obey. The naked fear coloring his painted face scared Severus enough to prompt action. Something was horribly wrong and he had a sinking feeling it had to do with Hermione. 

“Class dismissed,” he said, remaining businesslike so as not to alarm them, and quickly put a stasis charm on all the bubbling cauldrons. 

The Third years rushed to gather their things and left the room silently. 

“I’ll meet you back at ours,” said Antonin. “Hurry, Severus.” 

I will not run, Severus told himself as he practically sprinted through the halls and up the staircases. His robes billowed out behind him like bat wings and students in the halls jumped out of the way with wide-eyed apprehension. He wrenched the door of his room open and flew inside, looking all around. It was as silent as a tomb. Hermione was not there. 

Moments later, Antonin appeared in his portrait. 

“She’s been taken,” he gasped. 

“By whom?” ground out Severus. He hid his alarm behind burning fury. 

“One of the Eighth year boys. I believe the curse is manifesting and he is…taking advantage.” 

“What the fuck?” Severus drew up to his full height. “Where?” 

“I don’t fucking know!” snapped out Antonin, agonized. “I lost her, Severus.” 

“I know where their rooms are,” said Severus darkly. “Stay here. I will bring her back.” 

This time, he did sprint. 

When he reached the section of private rooms set aside for the Eighth year students, he paused and listened, trying desperately to quiet his gasps. Yes–there–he could hear her quietly whimpering. He strode to the fourth door on the right and brought down his wand like a hatchet. The door exploded. 

“Release her immediately,” he roared, stepping into the room. A lanky, creepy-looking boy jumped back and pressed himself against the wall. Severus slammed a Body Bind straight at him and lunged further into the room, searching, searching…

He found her. She was cowering in the far corner, looking more like a heap of bones and limbs than a person. Her shirt was torn and her bra exposed. He knelt down next to her. 

“Hermione? It’s Severus.” 

Her terrified eyes found his and she blinked rapidly. “S-severus?” 

“I’m here.” 

She closed her eyes and broke down, silent tears pouring down her face. Her back shook as she wept. Slowly, he slid his arm around her and when she leaned into his touch, he gathered her into his arms and stood. He saw her outer robes on the floor and levitated them over her body.  For several long minutes, he stood, murmuring sweet nothings that he had learned from Antonin while her sobs slowed and then stopped. She let out a soft yawn and laid her head against his chest. 

“Did he…?” asked Severus, barely holding on to sanity as rage simmered through him. 

She bit her lip and then shook her head, curls tickling his chin. 

Severus leveled his gaze to the boy—the man—in front of him. He released part of the Body-Bind. 

“Corner? You DARE to—” 

“I didn’t, Professor, I swear!” he said with wide, scared eyes. “She was asking for it! Practically begging. Everyone knows she’s a giant sl—”

Bang. 

Oh fuck. He had just knocked out a student. There would be hell to pay, but first, he had to get Hermione back to his room and to Antonin. He reconstituted the door, put a quick ward upon it, and flew through the halls still clutching the girl. A familiar tapestry loomed ahead and he ducked into the secret passage behind it that spat him out near his quarters. The Marauders had been good for one thing, at least. The girl lay limply in his arms and he noticed a large bruise purpling upon her neck. Vomit rose and he swallowed thickly. He would break Corner’s jaw for this. 

Antonin was pacing when he came in. 

“Is she all right?” 

Severus gave a slight shake of his head. “But it appears I got there in time,” he said quietly. He laid her down on the bed. 

“Fuck,” Antonin muttered. “What the hell happened?” 

“I mean to find out, but first…” 

“Yes, she needs you, Severus.” 

“No,” whispered the girl, opening her eyes. “I can still think, Severus. I can fight it off a little longer. You have to go deal with the Headmistress…and with…with…” She shuddered and her face grew even more pale. 

“Did he harm you?’ said Antonin, enunciating every word with dark intensity. 

Her hand reached up to tremble over the bruise on her neck. “He told me he had notes in his room about the essay we are writing in Ancient Runes.” She blinked rapidly as tears began to form once more. “I’m so stupid.” 

“No!” both men growled at the same time. 

“No, my little dove,” said Antonin again in a gentler voice. “You are kind and trusting after the world has treated you so unfairly. It is admirable, moya milaya. And I have…I have made you vulnerable with this terrible curse.” He twisted off, clenching his painted hand into a fist. 

“Call for me if it gets to be too much,” Severus told Hermione. “I will hear you.” 

She nodded and clutched her blanket closer. “Hurry, Severus,” she whispered and closed her eyes. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve dealt with Mr. Corner. There will be no need to involve the Headmistress,” Severus said darkly and left without waiting for a response from Antonin. 

Back in Corner’s room, he stood over the boy and breathed through the fury that had made everything around him a bright, glowing red. He bit out a silencing charm and then revived the boy with shaking hands. Hands that dearly wanted to curl around Corner’s throat and squeeze until the world faded from red to deathly blue. He was almost afraid of himself…of what he might do. Slowly, he took one step back as Corner blinked his eyes open. 

“You…” he said, pointing his finger at Severus with a dazed expression on his face. 

Severus snapped out his hand, grasped the boy's fingers, and twisted violently. Crack. 

Corner screamed in pain and wrenched his ruined hand away. 

“Y-you b-broke my f-fingers!” he whimpered incredulously. 

“Yes. And you tried to rape my—Miss Granger,” sneered Severus. “I should do worse.” 

“N-no! I would n-never!” 

“You put your filthy lips on her neck and bruised her, you pathetic little shit.” He raised his wand. “Tell me exactly what happened.” He stretched his lips into a humorless smile. “And it better be the truth…because you have a lot more fingers, boy.”  

“I told you!” wailed Corner. “She came onto me. Asked for my ‘notes’ in a breathy voice. I could see her…” he glanced up at Severus with a terrified expression then looked down at his swollen, dangling fingers. 

“Go on,” sneered Severus, and he began to press into the boy's mind with Legilimency. Hard. 

Corner gasped and his face contorted in pain. “Her n-nipples were hard. Her voice was s-suggestive. S-she bent forward…oh-over my notebook. Her n-neck was right there…What else was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to think that the most brilliant woman in your class simply wanted your fucking notes for an essay,” roared Severus, standing to his full height and looming over the boy. “A woman’s nipples and her voice do not constitute want nor consent, you piece of fucking rubbish!” He whipped out his wand and held it to the boy’s neck. “You ought to be expelled,” he hissed. 

Corner began shaking. “P-please, P-professor. You’re r-right—N-never again. M-merlin, m-my hand h-hurts.” He began sobbing. 

“Enough,” Severus spat. “Instead of expulsion…” 

“Yes, anything! P-please. I have to get these NEWTs.” 

It was illegal—a fireable offense. But nobody would find out and he had to protect Hermione at all costs. 

“Obliviate,” he said with grim satisfaction. Then, with far less satisfaction, “Brackium emendo.” 

He explained to the boy that he had slammed his fingers in the door and Pomfrey had been busy with another patient, so they sent him. Corner nodded blankly and Severus left before his rage surged up again. 

When he got back to his quarters, Hermione was weeping. 

Severus glared at Antonin.

“I tried, Sevvy, but she needs you. Levitate the bed closer so I can see you better.” 

For the first time, Severus didn’t argue. He obeyed. The girl’s heart-wrenching cries sped his movements, but as soon as he was done arranging the bed, anxiety surged up in his chest. What would she need? Would he be able to provide it? Touch had gotten easier…they slept entwined in the dark of the night…but that was comfortable and innocent. 

Antonin, one night, had gotten him to admit he was sleeping better than he ever had in his life. 

“Why do you think that is?” he had asked, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his hands like a fucking mind healer. 

“I don’t know,” Severus had growled at him. 

“Is it because you are no longer locked alone in the dark, my Prince?” 

“Fuck you,” had been Severus’s response and he had stormed away to take a walk through the dark halls before returning and slipping into bed with a sleeping Hermione. She had immediately snuggled into his open arms and he had drifted off still angry that Antonin had seen through him so easily. 

When he and Hermione were together in the room, they were constantly connected. Holding hands, or his arm curled behind her, or their thighs pressed together on the old sofa. 

But now, with the expectation of an orgasm, acid churned in his gut. 

“Severus.” Fuck, his voice was so rich. So deep. So unlike the sneering hiss or twinkling condescension or drunken slurring of the others who had ordered him about. This voice flowed over him like honey. 

“You are mine, Severus, my hands, my fingers, my mouth. Listen to the sound of my voice.” 

He nodded slowly and his racing heart slowed its gallop. “You will follow my every command, yes, my Prince? Ne boysya.” 

“Yes, Antonin,” he whispered. 

“Take off your robes and your shirt. Yes, very good. Now, remove our little dove’s clothing.” 

Bare-chested, Severus stood by the side of the bed and took Hermione’s hand. She lifted her head from the nest of blankets and pillows and peered up at him with a pale, tear-stained face. Her pupils were blown, just a small ring of deep brown showing. 

“Sev,” she whispered, blinking slowly. “You’re going to help me?” 

“Severus is going to take off your clothes, little dove.” 

Obediently, she held out her arms and Severus bent to lift off her torn jumper. He set it aside. He continued peeling off the layers of her uniform until she was bare before him, shaking with need and unable to look away from his face. 

“You are beautiful, moya milaya.” 

“Beautiful,” echoed Severus faintly. She reached out and took his hand once more, holding it tightly like a tether in the storm. 

“Look at your handsome Prince in shining armor, little dove. He rescued you so valiantly, yes? Kiss him, ved’mochka, for he will protect you always.” 

Severus froze. Hermione rose to her knees on the bed and crawled to him, bringing their clasped hands to her chest. She smoothed a black lock of hair from his forehead with her other hand and gave him a shaky smile. He barely breathed. Then, she leaned forward, closed her eyes, and pressed her full lips to his. 

A groan ripped from his throat and he opened his mouth. Her tongue swirled within and he met it, tasted her sweetness, and lost himself in her. Lips, teeth, sweet saliva. Her neck, her soft, burning cheek, the bone of her clavicle. Nothing was safe from his mouth. He wanted to taste all of her. And just when he thought he might explode from wanting more, more—

“Severus is going to feast upon you, my beauty, until you come all over his face.” 

His heart stopped. They both pulled away and turned to look at Antonin with wide eyes. Hermione let out a little whimper and Severus felt his hard cock jerk against the tightness of his trousers. And yet, a tendril of fear wound through his chest. He had never performed…never…oh god. Before the panic could rise, he met Antonin’s reassuring eyes and let out a long breath. You’re mine, his gaze said. Completely. Unequivocally. And Severus set his fear aside and handed himself over. 

Antonin would be their light within the storm, a solid force grounding them in the wild chaos of the curse—and of new experience. It was a strange sort of irony that the very man who placed them within this hell was also the only person who could lead them out. 

“Dear Prince, shift Hermione on the bed until her legs hang over the edge. Yes, that is very good. Kneel at her feet. Oh, such a beautiful picture you make. I am overcome. Darling girl, put your legs over Sevvy’s shoulders. Just like that. Are you comfortable?” 

“Yes,” she breathed, and looked down her naked body at Severus between her thighs. 

“Sevvy, are you comfortable?” 

“Yes.” 

“Now, I want you to part her folds with your fingers. Gently. She is glistening for us, so wet and ready. Lean forward and, Severus, my Prince, plunder her depths with your tongue. Tease her clit and taste her honey. She is yours and you are hers. Feast upon her with wicked delight and she will reward you with screaming pleasure.” 

Fuck! His voice. His damned beautiful, hypnotic voice. Severus was lost in it and there was nowhere else he’d rather be. He leaned forward and licked his tongue over Hermione’s cunt. The sound that wrenched out of him was like nothing he had ever uttered before. Primal. Feral. She tasted like heaven and hell, like light and dark, like pure fucking sin and he could drown in it. Nothing would wash him clean of her scent…and maybe…maybe he didn’t want to be clean anymore. Maybe he wanted to smell her on his face for days. Weeks. 

She moaned with neediness and he glanced up at Antonin once more. 

“FEAST.” 

Severus lunged forward and plunged his tongue within her pussy, licking and sucking and swirling with wild abandon while she cried and sobbed and curled her fists into his hair. He would have to grow it long again. The tugs upon it were sending delicious waves of tingling electricity across his scalp and down his body. 

All too quickly, she arched back and cried out. 

“Quick, your fingers! Now, Severus,” commanded Antonin in a breathless rasp. 

Severus shifted his hand from her gripping her thigh, kept his tongue on her clit, and thrust two of his fingers into her wildly clenching cunt. Her walls grasped the intrusion tightly and above him she cried out again. 

“Keep going. Our greedy girl wants another. Softer tongue, sweet Prince, lighter. Yes, keep fucking her with those long, beautiful fingers.” 

He slid his soaked fingers in and out of her tightness and tongued her clit lightly. He found the rough spot deep within her and, as her whimpering breaths increased once more, he ground down upon it. She exploded. Wetness squirted across his face and dripped down his bare chest. He leaned into it, gladly sacrificing his breath to fucking drown himself in her, just as he had wanted, oh god, it made him wild and hard and was he losing control? The world tilted, spiraled, fuzzed at the edges, and— 

“Take a breath, Sevvy, now,” came the growled command and Severus pulled back with a gasp and laid his cheek on Hermione’s trembling thigh. 

It was all right. Antonin would not let him falter. He was there, watching, and he would keep his darlings safe. He would make sure Severus did it right, gave her pleasure, fed the curse and the bond. 

“AGAIN,” demanded Antonin. 

Oh fuck yes, again-again- again. Perhaps he was greedy too because Severus so desperately wanted more of her cries, her whimpers, her wetness upon him. He ruthlessly wrapped his lips around her clit and tongued her until she screamed and her legs shook against his head. 

“Yes, my dove! Oh, moyo solntse, moi zvozdy, moy vozdukh…you both are so fucking beautiful. Wild and bright and shining like jewels. Severus, reach down and take out your beautiful cock. Touch yourself. I want to see your release fly across the floor, my Prince!” 

Oh god, yes, oh fuck! Within three strokes of his hand, he did exactly that and his ears burned with embarrassment…no, with pride at the sound of his come splattering across the floor. 

“Perfect, Sevvy. Perfect. Deep breaths, my sweet Prince. Good. Let your body relax.” 

Severus heaved and gasped. Hermione did the same, her legs hanging limply over his shoulders. 

“Get into bed with our witch, Sevvy. Coming back down to earth from such heights of pleasure takes time and patience. Soothing touches. Gentle kisses. Yes, my doves, you must care for each other.” 

Shaking, Severus rose to his feet and crawled onto the bed, pulling a slack-limbed Hermione bodily against him. She sighed sweetly into his chest and ran her hands over his arms as if reassuring herself that he was there. 

“Shh, all is well,” he said hesitantly and relaxed when she nestled her head into his chest, snuggling as close as she could possibly get. 

“That was nice,” she murmured sleepily. “I feel better.” 

Nice? That was pure fucking heaven! But he forgave her sexdrunk mind for its momentary lapse in vivid description. He chuckled into her hair and he heard Antonin do the same thing above them. “Rest now, my beauties. I will go get dinner sorted.” 

But they did not go to sleep. Severus tried to identify what was different as they slowly ran their hands over each other. Something had broken…a dam had been unleashed and now, everything was different. 

“It’s me,” he realized with surprise. 

“You?” 

“I’m the one who is different.” 

He felt her lips quirk up against the skin of his chest. “It’s not just the curse, is it?” she asked softly. “This feeling?” 

“No,” he agreed in a low voice. 

“It’s us. It’s him. He is changing everything.” She was quiet for a long moment. “Do you miss it?” 

“Miss what?”

“Your life before the curse, and the two of us, invaded it?” 

He thought of the long, sleepless nights of aching silence and unwanted memories. The endless days of only speaking to students and only in a sneer. Of occasional, exhausting conversations with colleagues that left him crawling with frustration. And then there were the moments he locked himself in the bathroom and drew lines of blood across his skin in a hopeless attempt to rid himself of the shame and overwhelming pain of his existence. He had always healed his wounds with shaking hands afterwards and resigned himself to more dreary days and nights on this earth. Perhaps he had been punishing himself. For all the impossible, fucked up choices he had made in his life. 

Now, with Hermione’s solid warmth in his arms and Antonin off planning their meal, that pain seemed very far away. 

“I do not miss it.” 

“Neither do I,” she said and he must have made a noise of surprise because she let out a soft laugh and continued. “I’m sure you think my life was perfect. We defeated Voldemort. I’m one of the  ‘Golden Trio’ and we were lauded as war heroes. But nothing about what I went through felt heroic. It was all just pain and violence.” 

She ran her hand down his arm. “Besides, you were the true hero, Severus,” she whispered. And suddenly he could barely breathe. 

“Everyone grieved our losses and then slowly began rebuilding, moving on, finding jobs, falling in love. The truth is…I had no idea what to do. My dreams suddenly looked like nightmares. My friends suddenly looked like strangers.” She sucked in air and let out a shuddering breath. “So, I came back to Hogwarts to study because it was a safe decision. Easy. This is all I know how to do.” 

He tightened his arms around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Antonin will tell you what to do after Hogwarts. You don’t even need to ask,” he said slyly and she pulled back, her eyes wide with surprise, before she let out a soft, tinkling laugh. 

“He does like to boss us around, doesn’t he?” she said smiling. She laid her head down on the pillow and tucked her hands under her cheek, watching him with warm, bright eyes. “Have you ever looked up at him…during?” 

“No,” said Severus. “That would not be possible.” 

She laughed again and flushed. He was quickly becoming addicted to both. 

“He looks like a king sitting on a throne. His eyes glitter like emeralds and he rolls up his sleeves as if he’s a conductor and we are his instruments. He loves it, Sev.” She reached out to caress his cheek. “I love it too.” Her shoulder lifted in a little shrug. “He makes me feel safe. The man who cursed me and gave me this scar,” she gestured at the deep, silver scar between her breasts, “makes me feel safe. How fucked up is that?” she asked. 

“That is not a question we should ask ourselves,” he said, making his eyes go comically wide and she giggled. 

“How did I never notice how beautiful your eyes are?” she asked, peering into them. His heart stopped and restarted with a painful lurch. “Onyx. So dark and velvety, Severus. Soft. Like your wool robes…and your hair…and the shadows you wrap around yourself.” 

“My shadows are ugly,” he blurted out, prickling with discomfort at her poetic words. 

“No. They are beautiful. They are real, Severus. We all carry shadows and most of us try to hide them behind bright smiles and cheerful voices. But it’s a façade. You’ve never been afraid to show them.” 

“Hermione…I am afraid all the time,” he whispered. “Every moment of every day.” 

“We all are,” she said softly and he drowned in her eyes. “But the difference is that you meet those fears head-on. You rage against them, Severus. Do you know what that’s called?” 

He blinked and a drop of wetness trailed down his cheek. 

“It’s called bravery,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss away his tear. “You are the bravest man I know.” 

Then, her arms came around him and he broke against her small frame, knowing that she was strong enough to hold him through the terrifying remaking of himself.

Chapter Text

Three weeks of peace with his ‘flatmates’ during the holidays sounded like a dream. Severus had finally accepted that he was well and fully ensconced in their routine and didn’t want a thing to change, except for the cessation of work. He vowed to actually try and enjoy his time off for once. Hermione got special permission to stay at Hogwarts over the break and Severus didn’t question her as to why she didn’t want to join Harry Potter and the Weasleys, who had most certainly invited her to stay at their crooked tower of a house or at least come for Christmas dinner. 

The worst memories tended to push past the barriers of his mind during the holidays and he was secretly glad that he would be under the watchful eyes of Antonin and their witch would be cuddled next to him for the duration. A fleeting thought crossed his mind of the three of them, faces lit up by twinkling lights of red and green and gold, raising glasses of Antonin’s favorite vodka, perhaps, and wishing each other ‘Happy Christmas.’ Maybe, for the first time, he would mean the words and feel the joy that others seemed to embrace so easily at this time of year. 

Antonin, however, had no reservations about asking Hermione why as soon as she announced her intention to remain at Hogwarts. 

She looked down and twisted her fingers in her lap. 

“Is it the curse, little dove? Because I’m sure Severus could attend with you without arousing too much suspicion.”  

Severus swiftly looked up at Antonin with alarm. Fuck no, he would not be setting foot on Weasley property, even for Hermione! He leveled his best glare at Antonin even though he knew it would have no effect except to make the portrait grin and waggle his eyebrows at him. 

“It’s not the curse,” she said, slipping her hand into Severus’s and squeezing it. For comfort, he now knew, and he grazed his thumb over her knuckles in acknowledgement. 

“What then, my darling? There is no reason you can’t see your friends over the holidays.” 

“I don’t want to go,” she said stubbornly. 

“Hermione…” admonished Antonin. 

“Just leave it,” said Severus in a low voice. 

“I will, Sevvy. I just want to make sure you’re not hesitating because of a supposed problem that is easily remedied, my dove. Because we can help—”

“I don’t want to leave you!” she burst out and then flushed. She pulled away, gathered up her books, and strode to the door. “I’m going to the library. I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’ll be back in an hour,” she snapped. 

They both watched the door slam shut behind her. 

“Everything is not fine, moy prints.”

“No,” Severus agreed. “I told you to shut up.” 

“Go after her.” 

“No! She needs space.” 

“She wants to stay because of me? Zachem?

Severus shrugged and tried to shake the unsettled feeling that was causing tension in his shoulders. “She likes you, Antonin. You have endeared yourself to her quite effectively.” 

“What does this mean, ‘endeared myself’? Have I endeared myself to you too, Sevvy?” He looked down at him with wide, curious eyes. 

“No, I can’t stand you, selfish brute.” 

Antonin threw his head back and laughed heartily and Severus felt his own lips twitch. It had been a joke. One of his first in decades and he got a little rush from Antonin’s obvious pleasure. 

“I’m so proud of you, Severus,” said Antonin, still chuckling as he wiped the blue-tinged paint from his eyes. Then, he looked intently at Severus. “I am so proud of you,” he repeated. 

Severus froze.

“You protected Hermione from that monstrous cad with such strength. Such cunning. Oh, and how you bring forth pleasure from her! A true Prince who worships his printsessa. I know it hasn’t been easy. Letting us in. Obeying my commands. But you are so beautiful when you submit, Severus. Tell me, do you love her?” 

He choked, ensnared within Antonin’s vibrant green gaze. 

Antonin smiled. “I love her.”

“I…I don’t–” he mumbled, still trapped like a doe in headlights. 

“Still…I worry about her. She is isolated. It is just the three of us all the time. I do not see her studying with anybody and she has not joined a friend for a meal or a coffee, hm? What do you think, Severus? Should I insist she go?” 

Severus blinked and desperately tried to jumpstart his brain. Antonin’s words had been like knives, tearing him apart. They had been like a balm, healing him with warmth and light. The contrast left him aching. He sucked in a deep breath. 

“She is an adult and despite your constant mothering of us both, she can make her own decisions. If she has decided to stay, you should accept her decision.” 

He ended the conversation by walking over to the window and sitting in one of the wingback chairs. His eyes immediately found the wisp of crashing blue in the distance. A walk on the cliffs would do him good and he wondered if Hermione might accompany him. The thought of her holding his hand as they climbed down to his favorite, private spot and then standing together while they felt the spray of the water on their faces…it made him ache. Something deep within him had come alive and he wanted to share things with her. Words, experiences, kisses. He was still too rigidly stuck to act without Antonin’s commands, but maybe, someday…

“Severus?”

“Yes?” he said, not looking away from the water in the distance. 

“I love you too.” 

The words clanged through his head, loud and discordant, and he winced before immediately rejecting such a notion. A strange urge to laugh boiled up in his chest. Antonin was a fucking portrait! Speaking of love? What a joke. Besides, nobody said that phrase to Severus. The only person he could remember saying it was Mum when he was very young, before Tobias had sucked the life and the magic out of her. He shied away from the memory and, keeping his movements hidden, he gave his arm a vicious, bruising pinch. The wave of pain washed away Antonin’s foolish sentiment and Severus picked up the book on the table beside him and began reading.  

An hour passed. And then another. Hermione did not return. 

“Go get her,” growled Antonin. 

“Fine,” snapped Severus, for he was worried too, and he rose, smacked the book down on the table, and quickly left the room. He made his way to the library and stalked up and down the aisles. Empty. All the students had left the day before and Irma was off this year, headed to her home in Aylesbury. 

Where else would Hermione go? He decided to try her abandoned room on the Eighth Year hall next. He found her door warded, clever girl, but it allowed him through. It was also empty. Worry settled heavy on his chest and he did not linger. 

He went down to the kitchens. The elves had not seen her but they flashed him apprehensive smiles when he mentioned her name. On the far wall, a debonair little elf with the biggest ears he had ever seen gave him a little wave from his portrait. Antonin’s insider, he assumed. Severus rolled his eyes and waved back in a move so uncharacteristic, he considered he might be coming down with something. He glared down at the stone floor of the hallway as he continued on his way. 

Anxiety began tearing at his barriers, releasing intrusive thoughts that began swooping through his brain like ghosts. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ The words whispered through his mind as he hurried through the castle. Never. Not once had someone used that phrase in relation to him. Even when he gave up everything to be a spy. Even when he returned after being summoned by the Dark Mark, twitching with the aftereffects of the Cruciatus, Dumbledore sat him down, gave him a cup of tea, and questioned him ruthlessly until he was so exhausted, he thought he might collapse. 

‘I love you too.’ That was a fucking assault and Antonin knew it. Love? Love was violent. It meant pain and neglect and gallons of alcohol. It meant stale cigarette butts littering the carpet and purple bruises marring delicate wrists and thin arms. It hurt to hear him say it and he didn’t really believe Antonin anyway. How could he accept such a thing when he had never experienced the feeling that was supposed to go with the word? He thought that he loved Lily, but that love had only brought him decades of suffering. 

Love was a dream, a fantasy, pretend, he scoffed as he hurried along the hallway, aching for the precious, golden connection that had gone missing. He needed her. Hermione’s touch was real, her thumb caressing his hand, her warmth solid against his side. Those things felt good and–and that was all he was going to get. Was it enough? It had to be. Surely Antonin’s confession was just more of his manipulation. Antonin was part of the bond, just like Severus and Hermione. The master and his puppets. What love could come from that? 

The Great Hall was empty and echoing. His own classroom was dark and still smelling of the strong cleaning he had given it two days ago. Where the fuck was she? Could she be hurting somewhere? In need? He decided to return to his quarters and consult with Antonin about a better strategy. Surely he could speed through the portraits around the castle to search for her and they could cover more ground, so to speak. 

When he got to the door, he heard their voices and his shoulders loosened. He reached for the handle and then froze when he heard his name. 

“...Severus does his best, but he isn’t you, Antonin,” he heard Hermione say with a wet sniff. Was she crying? 

“Darling, are you…” His words were muffled but he sounded concerned. “There are clean handkerchiefs on the table…” His voice faded into a nose being blown. 

“…make do with Sevvy,” finished Antonin. 

Severus fought the urge to press his ear to the door. 

“It’s not…enough,” she said, her voice thick. “Please. I need you…” 

Oh. Well. He heard that clear as day. 

Severus drew back from the door as if it was on fire. His mind exploded painfully into a tornado of fury, despair, and jealousy so deep and green, it could rival Dolohov’s fucking perfect eyes. She wanted him and instead she was cursed with Severus. It made perfect fucking sense. He was her professor. Two decades older! Reclusive. Cold. Steeped in misery. How could someone so beautiful and young want someone like him? This was always as it had been, chosen by no one except as a target for ridicule and disgust. Companionship was impossible. It had always been fucking impossible! How could he have even thought for one second that she would be different—that either of them would choose him. Hermione was only with him now because the curse had forced them together. Fucking Dolohov! Ultimately, it didn’t matter. His darkness would snuff out her bright light in the end anyway. 

Before he knew what was happening, he was striding across the snow-covered grounds under a quickly darkening sky. It was freezing cold and he hunched into his thick wool robes gratefully. He swirled a warming charm over himself for good measure and made a straight path into the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid had a cabin out there that Severus sometimes used when gathering potions ingredients. The giant was off visiting his large female friend in France and he knew it would be empty, not that Hagrid frequented it much anyway. It was more of a home to insects and the occasional bowtruckle. It had a cot, a wood burning stove, and a few other odds and ends. The rudimentary toilet was not ideal, but scorned whatevers could not be choosers. 

It was dark and frigidly cold inside the cabin so he immediately flicked his wand to start a fire in the fireplace. He looked around and his lip curled. Spiderwebs. The smell of musty disuse. On the counter was an iron kettle and an old tin of stale tea. The cot was large, at least, with a thick mattress and a wide, dusty blanket spread over it. He let out a shuddering sigh and thought of his own warm bed. Of bare legs tangled with his and delicate hands tucked under his arm. Sweet-smelling curls tickling his nose. No. She doesn’t want you, he roared in his head. 

There was a rocking chair by the fireplace and he sat, staring morosely into the flames. Flashes of words sizzled through his head like lightning strikes. ‘He isn’t you, Antonin.’ Severus winced and gripped both sides of his skull with clawed hands. He imagined her in tears, crying over the dreadful curse that had forced her into a bond with Severus Snape. ‘Make do with Sevvy. ’ He squeezed his eyes shut and growled. Make do. You make do with an old sponge when your wand is out of reach. You make do with watery soup from a tin when you’re too exhausted and overwhelmed to go to the Great Hall. You make do with a shitty, abusive father when you have your mum to look out for. 

‘Please. I need you. ’ Antonin. She needed Antonin. She wanted him. To kiss her, wrap his strong arms around her, to press his mouth to her pussy and make her cry out. Severus had just been a tool wielded by Antonin all along. As he had always been by more powerful men. 

Severus’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces. It was easy to break, brittle as it was. It had never really healed since childhood. After Lily, he had locked it away and kept it so protected, he sometimes forgot it could feel things. Damn, Dolohov, and the uncanny way he had drawn out all his bruised and secret places to see the light of day and breathe the fresh air. It would be even harder, now, to wrap the shadows around himself once more. 

Slowly, with his itchy, burning eyes still fixed upon the fire, he reached down and pulled up his robes. He fumbled for the hem and found the tiny little pocket. He withdrew the razor blade and sighed, shoulders loosening, as he held its familiar, cold sharpness in his fingers. He flipped it over his nimble fingertips with the ease of one who had done it many times. For years. For a lifetime. It had been weeks since he had done this and the anticipation brought a delightful fuzz to his overwrought brain. Everything narrowed to the point of the blade. And he knew, oh fuck yes, he knew that afterwards, the pain would be gone. 

Will it? asked a deep voice in his head. One that sounded so achingly familiar. 

Swiftly, he stood, unbuttoned his trousers, and pulled them down along with his underwear. Boxer briefs, these days, which he also wore to bed. Despite the now roaring fire, the air was still cold and he shivered. He looked down at his upper thighs. There were no cuts…currently. Sometimes, he let them fester for days before he used dittany or Episkey. He liked to look at them during private moments and remind himself that the pain was on the outside now, no longer burning him up from the inside. Other times, he healed them almost immediately. The timing of the healing was how he gauged the depth of his pain and depression. The longer he went…the worse it was. He had a feeling the cuts he drew along his legs tonight would never heal. 

His mind tried to back away into the dark recesses of Occlusion, but he did not allow it. This never worked if he Occluded. He sucked in a deep breath and brought the cool, sharp edge of the blade to his thigh. Very carefully and clinically, he flayed himself open. He let the pain seep down his legs in rivulets of deep red. Line after line he painted across his skin until blood pooled under his shaking legs and a hazy calm floated through his body. He felt light. Weightless. The turmoil in his mind faded away as pain flared bright and beautiful. Oh fuck yes. He let out a soft moan. Physical pain was the lifeline that kept him from drowning in overwhelming sadness and heartache. He leaned back in the rocking chair and closed his eyes. 

*****

“Mum, can I please have a sketchbook and some watercolor paints?” he whispered, tugging at her shirt and pointing. 

She glanced nervously over at his father who was examining a beach chair. “Yes, I suppose it’s all right. We are on vacation.” 

Severus hunched his shoulders and returned to the aisle that housed the arts and crafts. He carefully lifted the sketchbook from the shelf and flipped through the creamy white pages. He leaned down to smell the fresh paper. Then, he took a small set of watercolor paints from the same shelf and returned to his mother, setting them quietly in the trolley. He let out a breath when his father didn’t notice. 

At the check-out, his father frowned as he watched the till girl tally up their purchases but did not say a word about the sketchbook and the paints. In fact, he even gave Severus a punch on the arm that was a little too hard. 

“Sneaky chap,” he said and flashed him a smile that did not reach his eyes. 

Later that evening, Severus sat on the front steps of the bungalow and sketched the wide swath of ocean under dark, rolling thunderheads. Then, he dipped his little paintbrush into the water and swirled it through the blue and green paint to get the sea just right. He used white and gray to paint the foam at the crest of the waves and purple to add depth to the ominous clouds blowing in. He lost himself in colors and the sound of the ocean roaring in front of him. 

A long spike of lightning and the subsequent crack of thunder shocked him out of his reverie and he ran into the house, clutching his sketchbook and paints tightly to his chest. 

He painted the entire week. The sea was different every day and he tried to capture each mood of its rippling depths. He painted trees and umbrellas and the little piper birds that ran on stick legs across the sand. It was an escape into a world of light and beauty and color. At the time, he wondered if a boy could be so happy. 

*****

Severus opened his eyes and roughly wiped away the tears that had fallen. Upon their return home, after his father had immediately gone to the pub and gotten rip-roaring drunk, he stormed in the door and found Severus curled up on the dingy sofa, sketching with his pencil. 

“Gimme that,” he had said, stumbling forward and ripping the sketchbook out of his small hands. Severus sat frozen in fear and watched as his father gleefully tore through the pages, laughing at the clumsy, childlike paintings. 

His mother had come in when she heard Severus crying. 

“Stop it, Toby! He’s been working on those all week,” she cried, grabbing onto his arm. He had turned and backhanded her across the face and Severus choked as he watched her drop to the ground. His father huffed and muttered something about ungrateful slags before staggering away to collapse in bed. Severus crawled onto the floor with his mum, among the paper ruins of his happiest memories, and held her in his little arms as she wept. 

He returned to the present with a gasp and looked down at his legs. The blood had congealed into a mass and he winced at the sharp pain criss-crossing his thighs. 

He withdrew his wand from his pocket with trembling hands. “Tempus,” he said dully. It had been four hours since he had left the castle. He noticed dimly that it was fully dark now and the wind howled through the cracks of the cabin in icy tendrils. 

With a sigh, he half-heartedly cleaned his wounds and looked down at the oozing scabs with far less of the satisfaction he usually felt. They were raw and bright red. If he left them for long enough, they would scar, even with Dittany. Let them scar, he thought darkly. It would be a fitting reminder of how close he had gotten to something real and how horribly wrong he had been to trust anybody. Nobody would see them anyway. 

He stood and the room spun. Lurching, he made the few steps across the small room and fell onto the hard, unforgiving cot with a grunt. He yanked the blanket over his half-naked body and curled up right as the door banged open. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Severus Snape!”

Chapter Text

Severus cowered away from the black-robed figure in the doorway and cried out as a memory engulfed him without warning. 

*****

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Severus Snape?” 

He fumbled with his trousers, shoving his quickly softening cock back into his underwear. 

“Get out!” he choked out. 

James stood in the doorway, gleefully cackling. “Hey, Sirius, guess who I just found wanking in the loo!” he called. 

“Who?” said Sirius, peeking in from behind him. 

“Shut up, James.” Severus meant for his voice to be commanding, but it came out as a frightened whisper. 

“Ohhh.” James stepped closer and squatted down. “Is it your first time jerking off, Snivellus? Do you even have a pair of balls under there?” His voice dripped with amused condescension. Sirius laughed from the doorway. 

Severus glared down at his lap, fingers clenching in his robes so tightly they burned. 

“Ten points from Slytherin for wanking in the loo!” yelled Sirius to whomever else was outside the door. James sneered at Severus and then stood and walked to the door. 

“Next time, try a lock and ward before handling your tiny, little snake, Snivellus.”

*****

Severus lurched over the side of the cot and vomited. 

“Oh, god,” he heard a voice say softly. He felt gentle hands in his hair. 

The world spun faster. 

*****

“Again, Snivellus?! You’re a dirty little freak, aren’t you? It’s almost as if you want to be caught.”

James laughed loudly while Severus cowered naked in the corner of the steamy shower. He watched as something caught James’s eye and he stilled, his jaw clenching. 

“What the fuck is that?” he asked in a low voice, pointing to the small, waterproof-charmed photo clenched in Severus’s fist. 

James darted into the water and snatched it out of his hand. 

“No!” 

“You fucking bastard! You sick pervert. You’d dare wank to a picture of my girlfriend? That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard. Even more pathetic than your shriveled dick. Maybe I’ll start calling you Shrivellus instead of Snivellus.” 

“Give it back,” Severus said quietly. 

“No!” 

“She gave it to me, Potter. She is my friend.” 

“Bullshit. Stay away from her, Snape. I mean it. And besides, think about it. You’re a poor, filthy little stain on the House of Prince. Unwanted. Disowned. I’m a Pureblood who can offer her the world. Who do you think she’s going to choose?” He smirked down at Severus. “You can wash all you want—you can scrub yourself bloody—but the dirty mark of your murderous father will never leave your skin. Let’s keep the rubbish away from Lily, all right, mate?” 

Severus glared down at the tile. 

“Oh and Shrivellus? You’re the rubbish in this little scenario.” 

*****

“No more,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Make it stop.” 

“Severus, come back to me.” She sounded scared. 

*****

“Bind the girl to the table, Nott,” commanded the Dark Lord. “Yes, she’ll do nicely. Severus, the potion.” 

Severus stepped up to the stone altar and stared vacantly down at the trembling, young woman bound by her wrists and ankles. He Occluded so deeply he barely registered the world around him. He uncorked the potion, grasped her jaw, and poured it down her throat. 

Instantly, her limbs went slack. Relaxed. Pliable. A drugged smile spread across her delicate Muggle face. 

“Death Eaters, gather around. Tonight, here, under the full moon, we shall grow our Dark Magic into such strength that no other wizard will be able to stand against us! Thank you, girl, for your sacrifice,” Voldemort said with a serpentine smirk. He leaned down and ran his forked tongue up her neck. Severus dimly watched the pulse in her throat flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. She lay still, eyes rolling back. 

“Now,” said the Dark Lord, looking around the circle of Death Eaters with sharp eyes. “Who wants to go first?” 

*****

“NO,” he roared. “I will not! I refuse!” He thrashed wildly on the cot. 

“What is happening? What do you see? Severus, please.” 

*****

“Please, Headmaster, I can’t do this anymore,” he begged, dropping to his knees. “He knows. He must know! I…I refused to perform the rite.” He lifted his shaking hands, still spasming from the effects of the Cruciatus. 

“You will persevere, Severus. You must,” said Dumbledore with ice in bright, blue eyes. “Everything depends on you, my boy.” 

“He cut me today, Albus. Sliced me open along with Crucio,” he gasped out. “He is going to kill me.” 

“No, Severus. You will win him over and prove your loyalty, as you always do. Think of her, Severus. Think of Lily and remember. Whatever it takes…” 

Severus bowed his head and forced the screaming agony clawing to escape into the pit of his stomach. 

“Whatever it takes,” he repeated in a whisper. 

*****

“Whatever it takes,” he whimpered. His eyes were closed, but he could feel dampness on his burning cheeks. The rest of his body was numb.  

“Severus?” came a beautiful voice. Light and soft, like an angel. Was this the end? Had he struck too close to his femoral artery? “I’m here, Sev. You are not alone.” 

“It’s my fault you died,” he whispered shakily. 

“Who, my Prince?”

“Mum, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.” A fresh wave of tears spilled down his cheeks through closed lashes. 

A delicate hand cupped his face. “Shh…” 

*****

Severus heard the door slam loudly against the hinges. He quickly shoved his wand into the secret pocket in the hem of his robes. If his father saw him doing anything magical, he would take it out on Mum. 

“Eileen!” Tobias roared drunkenly. “Bedroom. The little wench at the pub left me with blue fucking bollocks.” 

“N-no, Toby, I c-can’t tonight,” he heard his mother whimper. Severus clenched his jaw and waited. Not tonight. Please, Salazar, not tonight. 

“I don’t give a fuck what you want, woman! Come here,” Tobias roared. Fucking animal. 

Severus lunged for the door of his room and ripped it open. He stalked out into the living room, looking around at the cigarette burn marks in the carpet and the torn, rotting sofa with disgust. His father was hovering over his Mum like a swaying, staggering beast. 

“Get the fuck away from her,” he sneered.

Mum looked up at him and pleaded with her eyes. “Go,” she mouthed. 

His father gaped at him for a moment and then let out an ear splitting cackle. 

“This has nothing to do with you, you weak little shit,” he said, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. Then, he glared. “Make yourself scarce, boy. Your mother and I have some business in the marriage bed.” 

“No. She’s not going with you.”

“What did you say to me, boy?” His voice was low and dangerous. His red-rimmed eyes focused on Severus and—

*****

“I need to wake up, I need to wake up, I need to wake up,” he choked out over and over. He didn’t want to see what came next. He couldn’t bear it. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.” 

“Wake up, Severus.” The angel’s beautiful voice was right in his ear. 

His eyes flew open and he gasped. Everything was blurry and the world tilted sickeningly. He slammed his eyelids closed once more and groaned, curling into a tight ball. His legs burned as his sudden movement reopened the fresh cuts. 

“It’s me, Sev. It’s Hermione. I’m here.” 

“Her-hermione?” 

"Where is it, Severus? Where is the wound? " Her voice held panic as her warm hands traced frantically over his bare skin. She wrenched up the blanket, exposing his thighs. “Oh god,” she whispered. 

"No," he rasped through his raw throat, fumbling blindly for the blanket, "Don’t look."

“Severus,” she breathed in horror. “I’m going to heal you, okay?” 

He nodded miserably and felt the familiar prickle of magic as she slowly, carefully, closed up the slashes upon his skin. 

Finally, she stilled and he let out a long breath. He felt her tremble. 

"You scared me, Severus. That pool of blood... " Her tears rained down on his chest in warm drops. The cot creaked as she shifted. He heard the sound of things clinking and shuffling as if she was digging through her satchel, and then a vial was placed at his lips.

"Drink this," she said softly.

He opened his mouth to protest and she quickly poured in the potion. He spluttered but swallowed it down. He knew the taste immediately. Stewed mandrake. Powdered unicorn horn. It was a blood replenishing potion

"How did you—?" he croaked out.

"Antonin. He told me to bring it."

Antonin? Oh god. Oh FUCK. Did Antonin know his secret? H-how had he found out? Severus had always been so careful. So private. Heat surged across his body in a sickening rush. Shame. Shame. Shame. He swallowed down bile. Nobody was supposed to know. His razor blade was the deepest of secrets, all his own, never to be shared with anybody. He began to shake. 

"It's the potion. It will pass," said Hermione reassuringly and she took his hand in hers. 

Right. The potion. The side effects were a rush of heat. Shaking. And—he closed his eyes and breathed through the accompanying nausea. He must've dozed off because the next thing he knew, her hand was gone and he heard the noises of someone puttering around the tiny kitchen area of the cabin. He opened his eyes and blinked until the world sharpened around him. 

Hermione turned at the sound of him shifting on the cot. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her brown eyes deep pools of worry and concern. 

It all came rushing back. The memories, the blood, her words to Antonin.

"Fine."

“Severus.” She frowned at his tone. 

“Why did you come?” he asked, looking down at the blanket. It was too difficult to face her. 

She came forward and placed a fragrant, steaming cup of tea on the small table beside the bed. 

“It took all of thirty minutes of you not returning for Antonin to go sprinting around the castle. Did you know he has created this whole network of portrait communication? The purpose of his ‘rounds’, I suppose. Finally, word came back that the painting of Almerick Sawbridge saw you leave the castle, and there are only a few places that would be warm and safe on the grounds in this kind of weather.” She paused and he could see her looking around the cabin in his periphery. “Hagrid took us here once. It began snowing during Care of Magical Creatures one day. Full blizzard. Somehow he got us here even though we could hardly see in front of us and we waited it out until Filch came with the enchanted sleighs.” She smiled. Fuck, she was so beautiful, it hurt. She doesn’t want you, he reminded himself severely.  

“Hagrid was flustered and blabbering non-stop but made us all tea and pulled out a huge box of leftovers from his coat. It was a grand time.” 

Severus continued glaring at the blanket, but it was exhausting trying to keep her out. Her voice, like Dolohov’s, swirled over him like a spring breeze. Soft and sweet and he was fucking helpless under it’s spell. 

“Anyway, I made you tea. Do you need help sitting up?” She reached for his hand and he pulled it away. 

“No.” He had to be strong! Deny her…keep her at arm’s length until the curse was broken. It was the only way he would survive this. 

She was silent for a long moment. 

“What happened?” she finally asked softly.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said in a dull voice. 

“Severus?” The heartbreak in her voice was like a dagger to his already shattered heart. “You are not yourself. I need to get you back to Antonin.” 

“No!” He finally looked up at her. Big mistake. 

The look on her face made his stomach clench painfully. Her freckles stood out starkly against her pale face. Fear and worry and hurt rolled off of her in waves and, had he been standing, it would have brought him to his knees. 

And then, she did something he did not expect. She pressed her lips together and plopped down on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, she grasped his hand in hers, and when he tried to pull away once again, she did not allow it. She held on tight. So tight. It was almost painful and–and– it felt good. He hadn’t realized…within Antonin’s voice, he had found safety, but within Hermione’s touch, he had found home. 

He dropped his gaze back to the blanket, let out an unsteady breath, and felt his lips tremble. 

“Look at me,” she said softly. And she waited. She waited the long minutes it took for him to finally meet her shimmering eyes. She leaned forward and said with quiet intensity, “I am not letting go, Severus.” 

Despite the pain, despite the knives in his chest, he forced the words out. “But–but you don’t want me.” 

She blinked and the cute little wrinkle appeared on her forehead. “What gave you that impression?” 

He frowned, uncertain. He could feel her honesty—through the curse or the bond or her touch—she was truly confused. 

She took a deep breath. “Is it because I can’t stop touching you? Severus, without your hand in mine, I am lost. Or…or perhaps you think I don’t want you because of the way I curl into your side at night? When you wrap your arms around me and I feel your breath on my skin, I feel safe. You think I don’t want you? God, Severus, I have never known such pleasure. When you put your mouth on me, I come apart and you…you put me back together. You make me whole.”

“That is just the bond—”

“No! It is you. It is us.” 

“Antonin—”

“Loves us. He is showing you in every way he can manage. Why can’t you see it?” 

“Because…”

“Because why? Tell me.” 

“It doesn’t matter! You want him! You don’t want me at all. You said…”

“I said what exactly?” 

“That you needed him. That you were just making do with me!” He clenched his jaw at the obvious sob in his voice. Fuck. Snivellus indeed. 

She looked at him as if he had just spoken in Ancient Greek rather than in perfectly plain English. Slowly, she shook her head. 

“Severus, I don’t know what you think you heard but—” 

“I was there,” he growled. “I heard you talking through the door. I heard every fucking word!” But that was a lie. Despite his usual ability to hear her voice, their conversation had been muffled when she had blown her nose—and because of the rushing in his ears as he listened to their betrayal. The uncertainty grew and he waited for what she would say. A thread of hope wound its way through the shards of his heart. 

She took a deep breath and sat back. A little chuckle escaped her lips. “You are so quick to believe the worst, Sev. So quick to run.” She shook her head sadly. “I’ll show you the memory.” 

He stared up at her. Her warm hand still clutched his tightly. She would not let go. 

“You have my permission.” She closed her eyes. 

He drew out his wand from under his pillow and held it up, shaking. “Legilimens,” he whispered. 

*****

“I will not force him to come with me to the Weasley’s. It would be a nightmare anyway. Molly is so nosy. So pushy.” 

“It sounds like such a good time, my darling. And it would be good for Severus to spend time with people. He is so tightly wound, little dove, I worry for his health.” He sighed. “Oh how I would adore such a party. I always hosted one for the holidays, you know? Food and wine and shots of vodka, vashe zdorov'ye!”

“Severus does his best, but he isn’t you, Antonin. He will never enjoy a crowded party, and that’s okay. I don’t really enjoy them either anymore. They make me nervous.” 

She sneezed violently, ejecting a large amount of mucus, and clapped a hand over her nose, horrified. 

“Darling, are you sick? There are clean handkerchiefs on the table. I believe Pomfrey has left for the holidays, but we’ll make do just fine with Sevvy. I happen to know he has a large stash of potions for every kind of illness. Now, the party…”

“It’s not up for discussion, Antonin. Enough! Please, I need you …” A sneeze seemed to be brewing once more and she viciously pinched her nose to keep it at bay. After a moment, she continued, “. .. to stop talking about it. I want to be here with you and Severus, period. Besides, I can feel the curse edging closer and closer. It will happen again soon.” 

“All right. If you insist, ved’mochka, we stay. Better for me to keep an eye on this sneezing,” he said, frowning. Then, his face brightened. “I shall begin planning our own festivities!” 

*****

Severus carefully withdrew from her mind and avoided her gaze like a coward. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the blanket and flinched, waiting for her wrath. 

He was not prepared when she threw himself into his arms. “Oof,” he grunted. 

“Severus,” she murmured, kissing warmth into his cold cheeks. “Hear me, please,” she whispered. “I want you.” 

Her lips traced sweet kisses up his jawline. “And I do so desperately need you.” The slide of her tongue down his throat made his heart pound. 

“I am…” She grazed her teeth upon his collarbone and pressed a wet, sucking kiss on his shoulder.. “...falling for you.” She settled herself in the nook of his neck and shoulder and it felt so achingly familiar to have her pressed beside him. “You have shown me care and protection. It’s time you let me do the same for you.” Throughout all of it, her hand remained firmly around his, although he found himself smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. 

He blinked away tears and took a deep, cleansing breath. Safe. He was safe here with her. She–she had never said those things. Fucking hell, why did he always destroy everything good in his life? 

“You cut yourself,” she said softly. It was not a question. 

It took him a moment to force the dreadful secret past his lips. “Yes.” 

“For how long?” There was no judgment, no disapproval. Just gentleness. Care, just like Antonin had taught them. 

“It started here. When I came to Hogwarts.” 

“Why, my Severus?”

His heart lurched at the endearment. “I wasn't…happy here. I'm just not–I don't know how to be–” He shook his head in frustration. 

“It's okay.”

“Hermione, I don't think I can talk about this,” he whispered. 

She lifted herself up on one elbow and studied him, her gaze gentle upon his face. 

“You must,” she said softly. “It is tearing you up inside.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I know. But I don't know how–I can't just–” He let out a pained sigh. 

“Antonin. He will lead you through it, Sev.” 

His first instinct was to shout “fuck no!” But he took a moment to think about it…to imagine that warm, honeyed voice walking him through his graveyard of memories, stopping to confront each headstone with care and calm. And at least–at least he wouldn't be alone. Hermione rested her cheek back on his chest. 

“Your heartbeat is stronger,” she said with satisfaction and he felt her entire body loosen. 

He didn’t speak but slid his arm around her. His mind was still a jumble of deep pain and shaky hope and it would take time to unravel his confused, complicated feelings. So for now, he simply relaxed into her touch and let himself be soothed by her presence. 

“Yes,” he whispered eventually. “I will talk about it with Antonin. As long as you're there with me…”

“Always,” she murmured. She pressed a kiss to his chest. “So brave, my Sev.” 

The room grew quiet except for the crackling of the fire and their slow breaths. The raging storm had blown out and now it was calm. She had come for him and grabbed his hand before he was lost to the violent wind and stabbing rain. 

A while later, Hermione lifted her head in a cloud of brown curls and blinked sleepily. 

“We need to get back. Antonin will be worried sick.” 

Severus nodded but nerves fluttered in his stomach. She cocked her head, considering him. 

“Do you want to do something fun first?” 

“S-some.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Something fun?” 

Her eyes twinkled. “Yeah.” 

He frowned. “No?”

Her laugh was a thing of beauty. She slid up his body and impulsively pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Severus Snape doesn’t have fun,” she playfully mimicked in a deep voice. “We will stride back to the castle with our robes billowing dramatically as we glare disapprovingly at the falling snow.” 

“I do not sound like that.” 

“Okay,” she said agreeably. “But how about this—” She took a deep breath, frowned menacingly, and drawled, “Obviously.” 

He stared at her, shocked, before his lips began twitching at the corners. She deepened her glare, holding his gaze without blinking. A snort huffed in his nose. And then another. And then he found that he was chuckling. 

Her entire face lit up. “Ha! I made you laugh!” She lifted herself from his chest and threw her arms out in victory. “I made Severus laugh!” she crowed to the wooden beams of the cabin. Severus tickled his fingers up her sides and she shrieked, twisting away. 

She looked down at him, grinning and so fucking gorgeous, and he couldn’t help but smile back up at her. Slowly, her smile faded and her eyes darkened. 

“Beautiful,” she whispered huskily and he shivered. His hands had come to rest against her hips and he tightened his grip. Their eyes were locked together, hearts pounding, chests lifting and falling with harsh breaths, until—

Her lips crashed down upon his, warm and soft and insistent. He moaned and opened his mouth, giving her entrance just so he could plunder her sweetness as well. Their tongues met in a maddening dance of warmth and pressure. She sucked the air from him and deepened their kiss until he was lost, lost, and oh god, it was such a relief. His world narrowed to her, to the wet slide of her tongue, the feel of her hands in his hair, the smell of her warm, clean scent, the sound of the little whimpers caught in her throat. Fuck, she was so good, so perfect. ‘I want you,’ she had said. ‘I need you.’ And he–he believed her. She had said she was–she was falling for him. Falling for him? He clutched her more tightly and kissed her until he could not breathe, until a rushing filled his ears, and the world dimmed around him. 

She finally wrenched herself back as if it was painful to leave his lips and they both gasped as they looked at each other with half-lidded eyes. 

“We have,” he gasped, “to get back to Antonin because,” he sucked in air, “I want you,” breathed out, “so badly, my princess.” 

She hummed in agreement and her eyes dropped back to his lips. 

“No, no,” he admonished. “Antonin.” 

“Antonin,” she nodded and blinked. Then suddenly, in a whirlwind of movement, she was up and packing things away. She wrenched open the door, letting in a blast of cold air, and flung the full cup of tea into the snow. Then, she slammed the door shut, wiped out the cup using a corner of her robes, and stuck it back in the cabinet. She had her satchel over her arm and was pulling a red and gold hat over her curls when she finally looked at him, still lying in the cot, gaping. 

“Hurry up!” she cried. “Why are you still in bed?” 

“You are mad, did you know that?” he asked, pulling the covers to the side. Oh shit. He looked down. His legs were bare. The skin of his thighs was pale and smooth, not a hint of the wreckage he had wrought upon it hours before. His cock was standing at attention, hard and glossy. 

“Oh fuck,” said Hermione, her eyes wide and dark upon his length. He fought the urge to grin. She flushed and looked away, digging her hand into the satchel. “Here.” She thrust a pair of trousers at him and backed away, turning to face the opposite wall. 

“It is illegal to extend hand-held luggage beyond 1 cubic meter without a permit, you know,” he said with false disapproval as he pulled on the trousers. They were soft and warm. And loose. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for his desperately hard cock and finally just tucked it under the waistband. “What are these trousers called? I’ve never seen anything like them.” 

She giggled at the wall. “They’re called joggers and those happen to have a fleece lining. And I don’t know what you’re talking about—my satchel isn’t magically extended.” 

He rolled his eyes. “I am decent.” 

Slowly, she turned and ran her eyes down his jogger-clad form, lingering on the bulge at his crotch. Desire pulsed between them. “Can we just Apparate to your room?”

“Impossible, I’m afraid,” he said in a breathless voice he did not recognize. 

She held out her hand. “Then let’s go.”

As he slid his hand back into hers, an overwhelming feeling of rightness settled into his bones. Together, they crunched through the snow under a wide expanse of glittering stars with the promise of warmth and care and growled commands waiting for them up in the castle. 

Chapter Text

Antonin was pacing his frame when they returned rosy-cheeked and snow-dusted. His paint, on the other hand, had taken on a grayish hue and it made him look positively sick with worry. 

“Oh, my beauties! Such a scare you gave me,” he accused. “Come in and get warmed up immediately.” Despite his sharp tone, there was a distinct edge of relief in his voice. 

“Yes, Antonin,” said Hermione contritely while also winking at Sev. He frowned at her and shrugged off his outer robes, leaving him in a shirt and the loose ‘joggers’ Hermione had produced as a joke, he suspected, because no human would ever want to be so freely wiggling about in soft fleece, would they? Hmm. On second thought, the sensation was growing on him. He surreptitiously attempted to adjust his half-hard cock but of course, failed to hide anything from Antonin. 

“What's this? Sevvy, did you and little dove get up to something without me?” 

It was comical how quickly they both froze. Fuck, thought Severus, anxiety beginning to crawl through him as if they had done something wrong. Were they not allowed to touch each other without Antonin’s command? 

“Hmm? I am waiting,” said Antonin with narrowed eyes. He began tapping his foot against the gilded frame. 

“We kissed,” Hermione blurted out, and her cheeks flamed red. 

“Ah I see.” His glare sharpened and held. They barely breathed. And then he burst out laughing. “Oh dear, my sweet loves, forgive my little deception. I could never be mad at either of you. I expect you both needed the comfort of each other, yes? And I cannot always be there. You have permission to touch and kiss without me, my loves.” He smiled at them and the paint appeared to brighten before their eyes. 

“However, I should be furious at you, moy prints!” He turned his emerald gaze on Severus. “Sevvy, you ran from me—from us—and two people have never been more wretchedly upset and desperate to find you.” 

“I am sorry,” said Severus in a low voice. 

“Ah, well, I forgive you,” he smiled broadly. 

“Antonin, we have so much to tell you,” started Hermione. She took a deep breath and squirmed a bit under his watchful eyes. Severus instinctually moved closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

Antonin nodded knowingly. “And you will tell me the whole story, my doves. After.” 

“A-after?” asked Hermione breathlessly. 

The shade of Antonin’s eyes shifted into the color of a forest, dark and deep and full of wicked things. “I can tell my naughty little sweetlings need release and it will give me great pleasure to watch you come undone.” 

Hermione let out a low moan and Severus shivered at the soft slide of his cock as it hardened against the fleece of his ‘joggers’. 

Hermione stepped forward. “Antonin?” she asked tentatively.

He gave her a roguish half smile. “You would like to pleasure your Prince, yes, my love?”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, please,” she begged. Fucking hell, how did the man–portrait–know everything they were thinking all the damn time? But Severus didn’t contemplate Antonin’s intuition for long. All of the blood from his head rushed down to his cock in a wave of molten heat. 

“And I shall not deny you, princess. You shall wrap those beautiful lips around Sevvy’s cock until he explodes down your throat, my little minx.”

Severus’s knees almost gave out as he gaped up at Antonin, his filthy words having short-circuited his brain. 

“Please,” whimpered Hermione again, turning her hungry eyes upon Severus. 

“Strip,” commanded Antonin. “Now.” 

Hermione began yanking off her hat, jumper, camisole—

“Slowly, dove. Unwrap yourself like the gift you are. Severus, don’t just stand there gaping. Unbutton yourself.” 

“Yes, Antonin,” he said in a low voice and flushed at Antonin’s wicked grin. 

“Face each other. Yes, prekrasnyy, so lovely, watch as you bare yourself for the eyes of your lover. Isn’t she perfect, Severus? Look at the satin of her camisole slide down her beautiful breasts. Oh, her nipples so soft and aching for your mouth, yes? Little love, look at our Sevvy as he slides down his trousers. His cock is making your mouth water, is it not? So hard and straining for you, my darling. He will taste sweet and salty, dove, and you will soon be addicted to the taste, just as he is wondering if I will allow him to lick up your sweet honey later tonight. Ah, but you must be very good, Sevvy. Our princess wants a turn to please you and as hard—” he flashed them a dark grin “—as that may be, you must let her taste you and stroke you and swallow you whole. My sweet Sevvy, have you ever experienced such a thing?”

No…no! Surely, Antonin knew. He had never felt anything upon his cock except for his own hand, covered in spelled lubrication and shame. Hermione would–would lick him? Swallow him? Fucking hell, it made him wild with need, fucking feral, and–and it scared him. 

“Severus.” 

Velvet black met forest green like two swords clashing and Severus let out a long, low moan. Antonin’s lips lifted in an indulgent smile. Severus relaxed into his voice and the fear drifted away like smoke. So patient, his conductor, so forgiving, thought Sev. 

“You will listen to my commands and you will obey,” Antonin said. And, oh Salazar, the magnetism of his voice left Severus panting. He slid the joggers the rest of the way down his long legs and flung them into the dark corner of the room. Hermione let out a breathless moan, now bare herself, as she drank in Severus naked form.

“I will do whatever you say, Antonin” he growled softly, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s face. 

“Sit on the sofa, Prince, and spread your legs wide.”

He obeyed. His cock thrust up, hard and aching, and he longed to wrap his hand around it and feel its velvet girth. 

“No, my Prince, hands off. That perfect cock of yours is a gift. Not for you, tonight, but for your lover who wants to taste it upon her lips.”

Fucking hell, how did he know such things? Severus felt like his thoughts must be hovering above his head like moving pictures for Antonin to watch at his leisure. 

“She has shared herself with you so beautifully and now you must return the favor, yes, Sevvy?”

“Yes,” he moaned and his cock twitched in the open air. A bead of precum welled at the tip and slid down his length. The fireplace crackled, throwing flickering light across his body and hers in an ethereal dance of flames. 

“My girl,” said Antonin in a deep rasp. Hermione lifted her head, golden-brown curls falling loose and wild down her shoulders. “Walk to your Prince and kneel between his legs.” 

“Yes, Antonin,” she said softly. A voice like an angel. His princess did not merely walk. No, she sauntered to him, hips swaying, her beautiful curves lit up in the soft glow of the fire. She was a far cry from the nervous girl who showed up at his door all those months ago, lost in the madness of the curse. Her renewed self-confidence made her that much more alluring…and erotic. Fuck, she was perfect. His eyes caressed over her breasts and the hardened buds of her rosy nipples. He longed to latch onto them and suck to his heart’s content. Oh fuck, the idea of it lit fireworks in his core. 

When she reached him, she smiled. Pure and radiant. It sent goosebumps tingling down his spine. She lowered herself onto her knees and waited, still not touching him. Her warmth, oh Salazar, the heat of her burned his skin and still they did not touch. 

“You are stunning, my beauties,” said Antonin, his voice like smoke and honey. “Little dove, put your hands on Sevvy’s knees. Not to tickle, love, firmer than that. Yes, now slide them up his thighs. You feel that rasp of hair? Soft and rough against your hands. It is perfection, yes?”

“Perfection,” she breathed, looking up at Sev with shimmering eyes. 

“Now grasp his cock, darling girl. So good.” Antonin let out a low chuckle. “Yes, two hands are necessary for a cock as beautiful as Sevvy’s.” 

The memory of ‘Shrivellus’ exploded into nothingness at Antonin’s praise. Hermione’s tight, little hands were full of him, all of him, from tip to groin, barely able to close around his thickness. His vision pulsed at the sight and he released a desperate groan. She stroked him and immediately, her eyes widened. 

“So eager,” grinned Antonin. “Naughty little minx.” 

She pouted prettily. 

“Give Sevvy’s cock a kiss right on his glossy head, darling, to apologize for teasing him so.” 

Severus sucked in a breath and held it. 

“Eyes on your Prince as you do, my girl.” 

And eyes never leaving his, Hermione leaned forward and placed a soft, wet kiss right on the tip of his cock. And her naughty, seeking little tongue swiped across his slit, drawing the bead of precum that welled from it straight into her greedy mouth. 

“I saw that,” rasped Antonin breathlessly. 

She moaned and closed her eyes as if the taste of him was just as intoxicating as her own upon his lips. 

“Please,” she begged and squirmed between Severus’s legs. 

“Careful, darling, don’t hurt yourself,” warned Antonin with concern shining in his eyes. 

The curse. How could Severus have forgotten the curse? Only he could give her pleasure. But–but, surely that’s what he was doing? She felt pleasure, he could see it, he could feel it within their bond. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” she said softly. “I feel…” She trailed off, looking at Severus with burning eyes. 

“You feel?” prompted Antonin. 

“Aching,” she whispered. “Empty. Hungry.” 

“Oh, my beauty, let us fill you up to the brim. Relax your jaw and slide Sevvy’s cock into your mouth as far as you can go in comfort.”

Severus hissed out a sigh of pure fucking pleasure as her hot, wet mouth descended upon him. His head fell back onto the pillows of the couch. 

“Princess,” he moaned. 

“Up and down, darling. Brace your left hand on his thigh, dig your fingers in, yes, grip him hard.” 

Severus gasped as her hand massaged into thighs that had so recently been slashed in bleeding, thighs that she had healed with gentle, precise magic. Pain…healing…he knew those sensations well. But her fingertips grinding into him while her mouth slid over his dick was fucking everything.

“You are perfect, my princess,” he whispered down to her and her answering moan was music to his ears. 

“Right hand gripping the base of his cock. Yes, my beauty, now you suck him deep and slide back up. Ah, see he likes that, look at him shake from your touch. Your hand follows your mouth. Up and down and wet, darling, let your sweet saliva spill out. Let your noises be loud and obscene, my dove, he will love it.” 

And Severus lost himself. Everything faded away except for the deep timbre of Antonin’s voice…and her. The wet slide of her mouth, the swirl of her tongue, the sharp graze of her teeth upon sensitive skin, fuck, it was heaven. Slurping, sucking, moaning, she was so fucking responsive, as if she had lost herself to him just as he was drowning in her. And Antonin, ever watchful, dark eyes glowing with heat and love and power. 

“Let go, Severus,” he growled. 

Severus gasped as tingling pleasure began to build…and build…and oh god, would he survive this? 

He let out a hoarse groan. “It’s coming,” he gasped. 

Hermione tightened her hand and swallowed him down her tight little throat, stroking faster and faster. 

There was a moment of sparkling stillness. Light glowed behind his eyelids and the world was quiet before he fucking erupted into sound and thrusting and wild cries. He came down her throat in great spurts that she gulped and whimpered and swallowed greedily. 

“Beautiful, moya milaya. Now slow down. Yes, he is sensitive, you can feel it. I want to hear your swollen lips pop off of his cock, darling. Oh, yes.” 

Severus moaned at the sound as he lay wrecked against the couch cushions. The rush that had exploded through his body left him boneless and utterly spent. Between his legs, Hermione rested her cheek on his thigh and panted. 

“Severus, lie down flat. Yes, stretch out, you languid, satisfied little sloth. Do not move. Little dove, stand up. Yes, you may use Sevvy’s body to help you. Now, little minx, I want you to straddle his face. Yes, you heard me! There is room on that wide sofa.”

Hermione finally maneuvered her shaky legs over Severus’s body and then she shimmied up to his face. Severus licked his lips. Oh yes, he had been craving the taste of her. Antonin was giving him everything tonight. Dimly, he wondered why, and then his mind went blissfully blank. 

“Sit.”

Hot. Slick. Fucking dripping. Severus moaned into her cunt and began lapping at her clit. 

“Roll your hips. This will not take long, love. I can see you are wild with need. Rub your pussy on Sev’s face. No, Severus, do not touch her with your hands. It is as if they are bound, above your head. Good. This is her pleasure to take from your mouth and your face.” 

Severus let out a little whine of protest and looked up into his princess’s eyes. They were half-lidded and black with arousal. She started undulating upon him and he lost his vision as her cunt slipped and slid over his face. Sweet and tangy slickness dripped over him and filled his mouth. He let out a long, deep groan and sucked at her clit and lips and labia, whatever happened across his mouth as she rolled her hips, faster and faster. He had no control, zero, she was ruthless, taking him, using him. He fucking loved it. God, he was hers, every piece of him belonged to her. His lips, his mouth, his face, his breath. Take it, he thought wildly. Take me. Keep me. 

“Fuck!” she cried out. “I’m so close, Antonin. Please let Sevvy touch me. I’m begging you.”

“And you beg so sweetly, my love. Sev, you may touch her breasts. Cup them, tweak her nipples.” 

He needed no encouragement. His hands were on her instantly, blindly palming her heavy breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers. 

She shouted and frantically rubbed her slippery, swollen cunt over his pointed nose. Faster. Faster. 

Her curls whipped wildly back and forth and her breath caught. She went still and then with a vicious snap of her hips, she screamed and reached for Severus. He caught her hands in his, held her through her climax, as she shook and trembled and dripped down his cheeks. He licked and swallowed what fell into his mouth. Her body melted into his and Severus tightened his grip on her. 

“Yes, hold her, Severus.” Antonin’s approval spread warmth across his chest and he gratefully slid Hermione’s limp, shivering form down to his chest. “Soothe her, Prince. You are both so good. So perfect in your pleasure. I could watch you everyday for the rest of my life.” 

Severus shot him a drunken half-smile and ran his hands up and down Hermione’s back as she whimpered into his neck, his scar, kissing and licking and rubbing her hair against his skin. 

“I’m so happy you are back,” said Antonin gently. 

Severus’s smile grew. “Me too,” he answered. 

Later, when they had both showered—another filled with cozy care and tender touches–and eaten—warm pastries straight from the oven, for it was almost morning—they crawled gratefully into their bed and pressed their bodies together. 

“Sleep, my kittens. Today will be a busy day.” 

Severus yawned and frowned with suspicion. “Busy?” 

Antonin chuckled. “I have plans for you, my darlings.” 

“Oh no,” whispered Hermione and Severus fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

*****

Around noon, Antonin woke them with a rousing edition of Good King Wenceslas in his deep baritone. Severus glared at him while Hermione giggled and rolled her eyes. 

“A banshee’s scream would be less offensive to the ear,” grumbled Severus. 

“Brunch is served, my dears. And I insist that you eat in your pyjamas. It is vacation, after all.” 

The strong tea and accompanying caffeine warmed Severus’s body and his tolerance of enthusiastic carol singing first thing upon waking. Despite their pleasure-filled return home and the cozy morning’s sleep snuggled close to his witch, he still felt raw and vulnerable, like an open wound. He feared even the softest breeze, so to speak, would be painful upon it and he dreaded the smallest intrusive thought that would likely send him spiraling. 

Antonin seemed happy they were back. He talked on and on about the snow (two feet last night), his favorite Christmas traditions (carving the ice sculpture of Ded Moroz), and Minerva’s upcoming faculty feast (she brings out the good wine). All the while, Severus’s anxiety crept closer and closer. He was not…ready. He just needed a little more time to heal before he tore his wounds back open for Antonin’s view. 

Hermione must’ve seen him frowning into his tea cup because she reached across the table and took his hand. It was immediate, the relief. The protection of her touch was a balm over his wound and he looked up at her gratefully. 

“I must slip out for just a moment, my darlings, to check the preparations for—” He stopped abruptly, flashed them a roguish smile, and waved goodbye. 

“Should we be worried?” asked Hermione with a smile. 

“Concerning Antonin? Always,” said Severus drily. 

Her thumb whispered over the top of his hand. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly. 

“Still…raw,” he admitted with difficulty. 

She nodded. “The wounds are still there, just hidden by healed skin.” 

He looked down at his plate. “I need…time. And I…erm…” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat with burning ears. “Can we…” He tried again. Fucking hell, words were failing him in the bright light of day. 

“...hold hands all day and never let go?” finished Hermione. 

“Yes. That.” 

“Yes, my Sev,” she smiled. “I shall even follow you into the toilet, should you need it.” 

He rolled his eyes but his traitorous lips twitched. 

“It’s okay to smile at me, you know. I promise not to jump on you like I did yesterday.” Her cheeks flushed pink and he wondered when he began to find the little know-it-all from his classes so endearing. 

He blinked at the implication of her words. Why was he still hiding from her? She had seen all of him, every piece, even the most horrifying bits (all save one, actually), and had not faltered. 

It had become instinctual long ago to hide his emotions, temper his words, and most important of all, never let himself feel joy or happiness. Such things only lead to heartbreak and ridicule. Better to be cold. Unfeeling. Feared. Fucking Occluded. When he had found Occlusion as a student, it quickly became his drug of choice. Potent and powerful and completely addicting. He spent hours practicing until he was a master. He could finally box up the pain of his childhood and shove it into the recesses of his mind, never to be unpacked again. He could send the memories of James and Lily into the abyss. The relief was intoxicating, and for the first time, he felt like he could function within society. 

The only problem with Occlusion was the exhaustion. It took extreme mental discipline to keep his mind locked down and organized and he–he was afraid that if he let go, even for a moment, he might never have the energy to recapture the dark and frightening ghosts buried deep in his mind. 

“Severus?” 

Her sweet voice brought him back. He looked into her warm brown eyes and tried, for a moment, to think of the future. A future where he wasn’t alone—where smiles came easily because he knew he was safe and cherished. But instead, all he saw was uncertainty. What if, after the curse was broken, she realized the true horror of the forced bond between them? What if she ‘woke up’ screaming as she realized the intimacy she had shared with two ex-Death Eaters twice her age? The destruction of all that he had built–all that he wanted to build with them–would destroy him. He would not survive it. 

Suddenly, Hermione plopped down on his lap and he startled almost comically. One of her hands still grasped his own and the other stole his almost-empty teacup and placed it on the table. 

She pressed her free palm to his cheek. “I lost you for a minute there,” she said softly. 

He wound his arm around her back and, in a move that scared the shit out of him, he carefully laid his head against her chest, as if a child being comforted by a mother. He let out a long slow breath. Hermione was most assuredly not his mother, and yet the position brought him a deep feeling of peace. A contented hum vibrated her chest and she began running her fingers through his hair. 

“You’re scared,” she murmured. 

He hesitated and then nodded into her camisole. 

“I’m not anymore,” she said firmly. 

He looked up at her with surprise and she smiled down at him, her hand still threaded in his hair. 

“I have you and Antonin. What is there to be afraid of?” 

“Nothing, my beauty,” came Antonin’s voice from the wall. “Now, you must dress and be off to the library immediately. Yes, come on, hurry up.” 

Hermione laughed and climbed off of Severus’s lap. 

“We can’t wear pyjamas to the library?” she teased. 

Antonin’s eyes traced up and down her camisole and knickers-clad body with appreciation. “You can wear whatever you want. I just don’t think Severus wants to tear anybody’s eyes out who might happen to get a glimpse of your delectable form.” 

“So dramatic,” she said with both exasperation and laughter in her voice. “What do you think we study in during revision week?” 

Antonin blinked big eyes at her, shook his head as if erasing his own thoughts, and then began shooing them both along with the flick of his painted wrist. 

“Please obey for once,” he growled menacingly. 

“As if we could disobey even if we wanted to,” muttered Hermione. “Domineering wall art, always telling us what to do…” 

“My girl wants to be punished for such a mouth!” 

She smirked and Severus’s breath caught. He would be the one doling out said punishment.  

“Come on,” he hissed, and flicked his wand, transfiguring her clothes into an ancient crushed velvet dressing gown with lace at the wrists and hemline, which was so long, it dragged on the floor. She was covered from high neck to toe in the voluminous thing. 

“What the fuck is this?” she shrieked, grabbing her own wand and pointing it at him. 

He looked down to find himself in a tight white t-shirt and–and similar joggers as the day before. These were green, however. He rolled his eyes at the blatant House Pride, having grown out of any care for Slytherin decades ago. When he noticed what other thing she had done, he swiftly lifted his head and glared at his witch. 

A giggle burst out of her. 

“Where is my underwear?” he ground out. 

She shrugged. “You seemed to like the fleece…and only the fleece.” 

Severus looked at Antonin. “Yes. Punish her.” 

“I will punish you both if you don’t get the fuck out of this room,” he roared. 

Their eyes met, big and wide, and she grabbed his hand as they sped walked out of their room and into the hallway. Then they both burst out laughing. 

“You look ridiculous,” he said, running his eyes up and down her velvet-clad form. 

“Shut up!” she shrieked. “Where did you get this idea, anyway? To transfigure something with this much detail, you must’ve seen it quite a bit!” 

He sobered. “It hung in my mother’s closet for years. I think it was my grandmother’s dressing robe.” 

“Oh.” She looked down trying to hide her obvious contempt for the ancient garb. “Strange that you would—”

His cheeks reddened and he flicked his wand, quickly transforming the hideous gown into a matching white t-shirt and red joggers for her. Mmm. Much better. Hers were tight and showed off her cute little bum quite nicely. 

“Much better,” she said happily and squeezed his hand. “And I see you've also Vanished my knick—” 

“Enough, witch!” he snapped. And then quietly, “Have mercy.” 

She grinned and walked along, dragging him behind her. 

*****

“Sev, look at this,” she said after they had wandered around the library for an hour, more content to just hold hands rather than look for specific books. 

“‘Magical Portrait Painting: A Guide for Self-Preservation,’” he read over her shoulder. 

Her eyes twinkled. “Let’s see what we can find out about wayward portraits who can read minds and bark orders like kings.” 

Severus arched an eyebrow and pulled it from the shelf.  They sank down together in an armchair meant for one and bent over the book. 

“Well, we already knew that portraits are able to talk and move around from painting to painting. This also says they behave like their subjects. Antonin is Antonin, right?” asked Hermione. 

“A perfect likeness. Physically, yes, but even more in his mannerisms. That maddening cheerful way he has about him while also simmering with magic and darkness.” 

“That was quite poetic, Severus.” 

He blushed. 

“‘The subject of a magical portrait gains sentience from the detailed and highly advanced enchantments not only woven into the canvas and the frame, but mixed into the paint as well. It is a painstaking process, sometimes taking years, and very few artists are able to magically recreate their subjects with even half the mannerisms of the living person.’” She paused in her reading. “I remember Harry telling me that—about Dumbledore’s portrait. Even though Dumbledore had time to train his portrait and teach him about his life, he didn’t always have the answers after Dumbledore’s death. He wasn’t real in the way that Dumbledore the wizard was real.” She tapped one finger on her lip. Her delectable lip. Severus stared at it and thought about pulling her face down and—

“But Antonin is different, don’t you think? He doesn’t just say ‘favorite phrases’ or imitate wizard Dolohov. It’s as if he’s…alive…within the paint. Severus, what do you think?” 

She looked down at him from her perch on his lap. Fuck it. He reached up and grasped the back of her neck, gently pulled her down, and placed a sweet kiss on her lips. Ah, much better. Now that that was out of the way, he would surely be able to focus. Her bum wiggled on his cock as she shifted the book. There would be no focusing. 

“Perhaps he coerced one of the great painters to create his portrait. I think Magenta Comstock was still active when Dolohov was out of prison but not yet back in Voldemort’s clutches. She was brilliant. She came to Hogwarts, once, when I was a Third Year and I got to watch her paint,” he managed to say. 

One of the few good memories in his life that he kept within reach in his obsessively curated mind. He had watched, awestruck, as she wove magic and paint into a beautiful image of Hogwarts at sunset. The clouds floated across the canvas, lit up in pinks and golds and purples. Birds flapped their wings in the distance and the house flags fluttered in the painted breeze. He remembered his fingers twitching as he watched her, lost in the movement of the brush, which she had attached to her wand. When she began painting the spray of the waves crashing against the Hogwarts cliffs, he had stood abruptly and left. Memories had risen up like bile and he couldn’t shake the image of ripped pages littering the carpet around him. 

Hermione squeezed his hand. He blinked and let his face relax. His tether in this wild world and she gently tugged it every time he lost himself. 

“Will you tell me this one?” she asked. 

He almost shook his head. That uncertain future still haunted him. ‘I’m not afraid anymore,’ she had said. ‘I have you and Antonin.’ Did that mean she might not separate herself from them when the curse was broken? That she might…stay? 

“When I was a child, I wanted to be a painter,” he said in a voice so quiet she leaned closer in his arms. “My father cured me of that dream quite effectively.” 

She ran her fingers through his hair and lifted his chin so that he met her eyes. “He doesn’t get to dictate your dreams, Sev.” 

“I–I wasn’t any good at it, anyway,” he stuttered. 

“With hands like yours, Severus, I find that hard to believe. The way you hold a knife and cut through a pickled slug is an artform in and of itself.” She leaned close to his lips. “I would love to see what you can do with a paintbrush,” she said in a low voice and pressed a featherlight kiss upon his mouth. 

He tightened his grip on her back and lost himself in the feel of her. They didn’t fall upon one another or lose themselves in passion. No. They sat, wrapped up and close, just breathing. And as he relaxed into her touch, he thought about painting. About that week by the sea and how vivid and beautiful life had looked with a sketchbook under his arm and a few little watercolors spread about the front porch. What kind of father crushes the dreams of a little boy? It was the first chasm in his self-worth and sent him careening down a path that led him to heartbreak and pain and a dark mark upon his skin. Shame. So much shame. And he–he took out his rage on his own students. Fuck. What a horrible wretch he was! He drove his aching head into Hermione’s softness and she gripped him tightly in her arms. 

“You are almost ready,” she murmured into his hair. 

“To do what?” he gasped almost angrily. 

“To face this.” 

“No,” he growled. 

“Yes,” she growled right back. “You are the bravest man I know, Severus.” 

He shuddered and she squeezed him so hard he couldn’t breathe and his bones ached and his heart pounded and–and he fucking loved it. ‘I will not let go.’ She proved it over and over and over. 

“Excuse me!” said an outraged voice. “You are very rudely intruding upon my nap, good sir!”

“Sorry, dear Whatever Your Name Is. Just here to pick up my charges,” said Antonin cheerfully from the portrait behind Irma’s desk. “Come,” he beckoned with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I have a surprise for you.” And then he disappeared from the painting. 

Hermione let go and slid off of his lap. With the solid warmth of her gone, he was bereft, floating in the emptiness of space, and oh, there was her hand, slipping in his, pulling him up from the chair. 

“We’d better obey,” she whispered to him with a wink. “I’m already on thin ice.” 

“I will never punish you, Hermione. Even if he orders it. That’s where I draw the line,” he told her seriously. The idea of–of spanking or—he couldn’t. Never. 

She nodded with understanding. “He knows,” she said. 

Severus frowns. “You think?” 

“Have you ever felt he has pushed too hard?” 

He thought about it for a moment. No…he had never felt uncomfortable or past his limits. Antonin only ordered him to do what he could not fathom on his own, but it always turned out to be exactly what he wanted. 

“He would make you punish me with orgasms, I’m sure,” she said with a pink blush staining her cheeks. “Which would not really be a punishment…” 

Severus felt his own blush creeping up his neck. “Come on.” 

Together, they hurried down the hall and finally reached their door. 

“Princesses first,” he drawled in the voice she had teased him about not long ago. 

“I don’t fucking think so!” she said indignantly. “Brave, remember?” 

“You are a Gryffindor, my witch, and a formidable duelist. The very definition of brave!” 

“Yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “But this is Antonin we’re talking about.” She stepped behind Severus and gave him a little push. 

He stood his ground. Finally, she growled and, quick as a wink, drew out her wand and flicked at the door. It burst open and she shoved Severus with more strength than he thought possible from such a little witch. 

They both gasped at the wonder that met their eyes. 

The windows were shuttered and the usual charmed lights were off. And in the darkness, the room was transformed . Colored orbs of light bobbed gently above them glowing in red, green, gold, and blue. A magnificent fifteen foot Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room adding its spicy pine fragrance to the air. It was also covered in strings of glittering lights and ornaments of gold and silver. A crystal star threw fractals of light across the ceiling and a tiny little snow fairy danced within it prettily. Branches of holy, fir, and pine lay artfully arranged upon window sills and the fireplace mantle. The sight was truly magical, but Severus was soon distracted by the look of wonder upon Hermione’s face. Her eyes glowed and her hand was fisted at her chest, the other still clasped within his. She let out a soft sigh of pure happiness and Severus breathed in her joy, hoping it was contagious.

"I think they like it, " came Antonin’s deep voice, full of laughter, and they both turned to his portrait.

"Oh, Antonin, " Hermione exclaimed. "I wish I could hug you! This is—” 

She pulled Severus close to the portrait and got up on her tippy toes. Severus, seeing her intention, braced his hands on her waist and lifted her so she could place a kiss on Antonin’s beard-shadowed painted face.

When Severus set her back on her feet, he saw Antonin's cheeks darken and he brought somewhat trembling fingers to his cheek.

Ha, thought Severus. You are just as affected by our sweet witch as me. 

"Thank you, my dear, " he said in an emotional rasp. 

"But, how did you manage it?" she asked, spinning around.

"Mippy and Tibby volunteered to help."

"Mippy?" growled Severus. 

"Ah, you owe her an apology, Sevvy, and you can do it shortly. They are bringing up the pièce de résistance to please my beauties.” 

In the overwhelming change to his room and his life, the addition of Antonin’s rebuke snapped something within him and he was suddenly, irrationally angry. Apologize? To the insolent elf who had interrupted his night those months ago to glue a maddening portrait to his wall without permission and then—

"Sevvy, surely you realize by now that she was just doing me a favor, yes?” Antonin said gently. “She brought me where I wanted to be. I came for you."

And the world suddenly tilted—or righted itself, he wasn't sure. Antonin had planned everything. He was here for a reason: to help the girl and end the curse. Could he have done it without Severus? There was the bond to consider. So why! Why say he came for Severus? 

"Because I wanted to give you everything, dear Prince. Everything you deserve. Care. Family. Happiness.”

Severus went cold. The lights twinkled merrily and the scent of pine washed over him and Antonin so casually talked of family. And Severus, oh fuck, he wanted to–to vomit. 

Run, whispered a vicious voice inside of him. 

He took one step backward before Hermione was there, wrapped around him like a blanket, pressing her cheek against his cold, shuddering chest. Care. And when his knees gave out, she sank down with him, whispering sweetness into his hair as he battled demons and raged against his past. And soon enough, Antonin’s mesmerizing baritone harmonized with her soft voice and together, using lips and hands and beautiful words, they brought him back. Family. 

*****

The final touch to the extraordinary decorations was a large ice sculpture of the three of them, charmed to remain frozen until New Years. The two elves shuddered under the weight and Severus quickly drew out his wand and levitated the sculpture to a round, empty table that had not been in his room the day before. He narrowed his eyes. A perfect fit. 

“Thank you, dear Mippy and Tibby, my little gems.” 

The two elves beamed up at Antonin, who looked at Severus meaningfully. Severus leveled a glare so fierce upon him, he halfway expected fire to shoot from his eyeballs. Meddling busybody fucking bastard! 

“Er, Mippy?” he growled. And then sighed when she jumped and covered her face. Hermione pressed her lips together. Oh no, not her too. He fought against rolling his eyes. 

Severus cleared his throat. “Mippy,” he tried again. “I…apologize…for my…” He searched for the word. 

“Harsh?” supplied Antonin. 

“Thank you,” said Severus through clenched teeth. “My rather harsh behavior towards you when you brought this devil painting into my room.” 

He saw from his periphery Hermione and Antonin exchange an infuriatingly knowing grin. 

Mippy peeked at him through her knobby hands. 

“I am sorry,” finished Severus. 

“Mippy…forgives you,” she squeaked, looking at Antonin who nodded reassuringly. 

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. Honestly, the whole thing was just ridiculous. And who cared if he felt moderately better having apologized to the elf. He would never admit it, at least. 

“Antonin’s portrait has been a blessing, Mippy,” added Hermione as she walked the elves to the door. “And thank you both so much for hard work on the decorations. They are enchanting.”

The elves shyly waved and Disapparated with a CRACK from the hallway. 

Hermione walked back smiling and slipped her hand into Severus’s. “What is this monstrosity?” she whispered playfully, nodding her head towards the ice. 

“I heard that!” 

“I meant for you to!” she shot back. 

“After all I do to make Christmas magical for my beauties, this is the thanks I get,” lamented Antonin, rolling his eyes. “It is tradition and you will enjoy it. Besides, it moves.” 

“It moves?” 

“Positions, yes.” 

“Ooh. When?” Hermione gave the ice an experimental poke. 

“When it chooses,” he answered with an air of mystery. 

“What positions, exactly?” asked Severus with extreme suspicion. 

To that, Antonin gave them his best wicked grin, emerald eyes glittering. 

“Now,” he clapped. “What would you two like to do with your evening? I have some ideas,” he said slyly. 

It turned out his idea was a game of charades and after they ate a meal of fish and chips, of all things, they played. It began quite seriously with points and careful acting, but soon enough, it devolved into Antonin making dramatic cheating accusations and Hermione, in response, acted out a particularly naughty book title involving several rude gestures. Severus sat there and watched them argue and tease with an unrestrained grin on his face, which was a strange and almost uncomfortable sensation. He was…actually enjoying himself. 

“You agree with me, right, Sev?” asked Hermione, sitting down on his lap with an angry huff. 

“Of course, my princess,” he said softly, moving a curl from her face. 

“Hey now, I must protest!” growled Antonin with no real venom in his voice. “You weren't even listening to my side of the argument, moy prints!” 

“My dear Antonin, have you not learned by now,” he drawled. “Hermione is not just the princess nor even the queen—she is the king of the know-it-alls and can only ever be right!” 

Hermione burst out laughing and leaned forward for her kiss while Antonin huffed and spluttered.

“But I thought I was the King…” he muttered. 

Happiness.  

Chapter Text

Severus soon found out that being home all the time meant that Antonin was in his own frame all the time which meant there was no escaping him. And with the addition of the holiday spirit, he was relentless. 

“Sevvy, do you think that Minerva will allow portraits to come to the banquet?” 

“Why don’t you go visit her and ask?” 

“Moy prints, imagine what old snake face would think to see us together like this! Ha, rolling over in his…? Where might he be? Hell?” 

“What’s worse than hell?” 

“The elves are asking me if we would prefer a full turkey dinner on Christmas or filet mignon instead?” 

“Fish and chips.”

“Sevvy! Do not joke about such things!” 

“Fine. Filet.”

“Turkey it is. English tradition, yes?” 

The comments were always innocuous, but Severus’s anxiety grew each time Antonin said his name. They still hadn’t talked about his night away in the forest cabin and he knew the dreaded conversation about his cutting was drawing closer and closer. Hermione and Antonin both knew his secret, it was out in the open, but he was far more terrified of showing them the splinter buried deep inside that was the source of all his pain and guilt and sorrow. It was the thing he kept trying to dig out each time with his razor blade with no success. How would they look at him once they knew his greatest failure? His deepest regret? He waited for the shoe to drop with a pounding heart. 

Hermione was also not immune to Antonin’s constant interruptions. His princess showed quite a bit of restraint when it came to Antonin…up to a point. He finally got to see her lose it when Antonin interrupted her reading for the eighth time in an hour. 

“Merlin’s balls, Antonin, I love you, but could you please let me get through this very interesting and intense part of my novel? The killer is just about to be revealed and you are making me forget all the clues that led up to this!” She glared at him, shoved her feet further into the blanket on Severus’s lap, and buried her nose back in her book. 

As soon as she said it, the big it, Antonin’s paint went pale and Severus froze on the sofa. Hermione, oblivious, kept on reading. Severus could see her eyes flying across the page as she worried the corner of her lip with her teeth. 

“H-Hermione?” rasped Antonin with an uncharacteristic stutter. 

She let out a feral growl, like a fierce little lioness, and hunkered down further into the sofa. 

It did not deter Antonin. “You love me, dushen'ka?" he said in an incredulous whisper. Severus remained frozen, forcing himself to breathe, deep and even, and not spiral into the depths of despair that she had so casually said that phrase to Antonin—and not to him. 

Hermione's eyes snapped up to Antonin. “Yes, you irritating man. I do. But if you keep interrupting me, I will take it back!” She stood up, book gripped in one hand, and yanked the blanket around her shoulders. “Come on, Sev. We're going to the library so I can finish this in peace!” 

Severus shot Antonin a look of utter bewilderment as he allowed himself to be dragged from the room. 

The library had been empty all week and remained that way two nights before Christmas. When they had settled in their armchair, Hermione ensconced in his lap, she let out a sigh and leaned her head against his chest. She did not open her book. 

“I haven't told you because of the curse,” she said quietly. 

Oh. Oh! But, of course. Perhaps–perhaps she felt something but the bond and the curse made everything confusing. Unable to be trusted. And besides, now that he thought more about it, he wasn't really sure he wanted her to tell him that phrase because, truthfully, it scared the shit out of him. And oh Salazar, he would desperately want to say it back to her, but he didn’t know how! Would Antonin have to command him to tell her ‘I love you’? he thought miserably. What an inept fucking mess he was. 

Hermione’s touch on his face brought him back to the present. She searched his eyes. “He was driving me up the wall, so to speak, and it just slipped out, Severus. And I do–I do love him. But he is a portrait, you understand. It is safe.”

He did. He did understand, even though there was an ache in his heart. Even though the jealousy washed over him with that sickening green tinge. The ones he thought he loved had never reciprocated. It wasn’t rational to be envious of a portrait, but fuck, he craved the words, the feeling that he had been long denied. Antonin’s love for him was that of care and lent strength…but hers? He imagined it would crack him open and consume him. 

Abruptly, she pulled his face down and kissed him, slow and sweet, and when she was done, her bright golden light had banished the green. 

“When I say it to you,” she said in a low voice, looking straight into his eyes. When. “It will be real, Severus, freely spoken without a bond or a curse in the way. And you will know that it is true.” And, Salazar, this time it was he who kissed her. Achingly. Desperately. He had never wanted a wish to come true so badly. If she gave him her heart, he would hold on to her love and never let it go. 

When they finally pulled away, Hermione smiled at him and very deliberately set her book aside. 

He arched an eyebrow at her and tried valiantly to get his breathing under control. 

“You are not finishing your murder mystery?” he asked breathlessly. He had been quite pleased at the idea of sitting with her in the blessed quiet for an hour and ‘resting his eyes.’ 

“A ruse, my dear Watson,” she said with twinkling eyes. 

“My name is Severus.” 

She poked him. “You’re no fun at all.” 

“Obviously,” he drawled with exaggeration and his insides lit up when she threw her head back and laughed. 

“Actually, I need your help. I have an idea for Antonin’s Christmas gift and I think if we work together, we can pull it off.” 

“Go on.” 

“We are going to give him…” she paused for effect. Severus rolled his eyes.

“A crown!” she said triumphantly. 

He stared at her. “You really want to feed into his obnoxious arrogance and control…issues?” he asked drily. 

She nodded, lips twitching. 

“Okay, princess. How do we do it?” 

“I’m so glad you asked.” She slipped off of his lap and walked to the shelf they had been browsing the day before. When she came back, she had the portrait book in her hand. 

“You are going to paint it while I weave in the magic,” she said with full confidence. 

If she had said, “you are going to fly to the moon on a broom,” he would have been less dumbfounded. 

“Absolutely not,” he burst out and rose to his feet. 

“Severus,” she sighed and moved towards him. 

“No, you go too far,” he sneered in a low voice. 

Run, whispered the darkness inside him. What the fuck was she thinking? He hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since he was eight—and for good reason. Fucking hell, she knew the memories it would bring up. The pain…

Suddenly, she was right there, crowding his space, smelling fucking heavenly, like the shower they had taken together last night. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, winding her arms around his middle. 

He looked down into the depths of her eyes and found only warmth and concern and care. Fuck. Regret slithered into his stomach. Isn’t that what they both did for him? They cared. It was so simple, really. A curse…that was a gift in disguise. 

Suddenly, more than anything, perhaps even more than his fear, Severus was shocked to find that he wanted to get down on his fucking knees and thank Antonin for all he had given him. After Dumbledore and Voldemort, he had vowed to never again put himself at the mercy of anyone. But here he was…under the careful control of a fucking portrait that he–he could no longer imagine life without. Antonin soothed his fears and fed his cravings. He drove Severus mad, and in the same breath, drove him wild with that deep, mesmerizing voice. What was a gift if not a show of gratitude? A show of…love? 

He looked down at Hermione in his arms. “Together?” he whispered.

“I will not let go,” she answered, squeezing him tightly. For a moment, they just swayed together in the empty library. Then, he reluctantly let her pull away. 

“Accio satchel.” 

Her bag flew into the library and as soon as it was in her hand, she began digging through it, talking all the while. 

“Antonin’s portrait, like most of them, is an oil painting, so I had to raid Professor Rowle’s art supply closet.” She began producing tubes of oil paints and an old palette covered in dried paint splatters. Various brushes, paint thinning agents, canvases, all manner of art supplies clattered onto the table. His witch had done her research. 

“Where is the easel?” he deadpanned, looking pointedly at her illegal bag. 

“I don’t think we need it,” she said airily. “The crown will be sized to him and his portrait isn’t huge.” 

“But it’s in there.” 

“Of cours—” She narrowed her eyes, catching on. “Not. Of course not. An easel would be way too big to fit.” 

His lips twitched. Once she had arranged everything on the library table and opened the portrait book to the chapter entitled “Spells and Incantations Used in Portrait Making,” she beckoned him to sit down. He did, adjusting his chair so that their legs and arms were brushing together. Not an ideal position for painting, but he had to be touching her. It was a need he could not deny nor explain. 

“How does this work, my brilliant witch?” 

She flushed at the endearment. “Sketch first, right? Then, as you paint, I will infuse each brushstroke with magic using a spell called nectacromus. That is what will take us the longest. Every brushstroke! When it is done, we use a variation of epoximise to transfer it into Antonin’s portrait. Once it’s there, he can do with it what he wants, like any object. Hold it, twirl it on his finger, put it on his head and start growling commands…” Her voice became husky…sensual…and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. 

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll reread the chapter and practice the spells while you draw the sketch.” 

She handed him an art pencil and a creamy white piece of paper, which reminded him of the creamy white of her—oh fuck. His cock twitched. Focus, he told himself. 

The first few lines on the paper were rough. Shaky. Awkward. He huffed and sighed with frustration, balling up paper and throwing it behind him like a caricature of a tortured artist. But, after a while, with Hermine’s leg pressed to his own, the world faded away and his strokes became more confident. Precise, like slicing valerian root…smooth, like stirring a finicky potion…careful, like sprinkling the dust of a unicorn horn just so as to not clump. 

He transferred the sketch to the canvas and turned to Hermione, who had her wand in the air as she practiced the intricate swirling movements of the spell. 

“I’m going to start mixing the paint,” he told her. Why was his heart pounding? 

Hermione reached over and squeezed his wrist before turning back to the book. 

He reached out a trembling hand and carefully uncapped the Cadmium Yellow Deep and squirted a blob of it on the palette. He hesitantly reached for a few others and added them, one blob at a time. It took him several long minutes to mix the correct color green for the emeralds he planned to add to the crown. Emeralds to match a certain pair of shrewd and discerning eyes. 

It would take a miracle to make this work. Watercolors were so vastly different from oil paints. He had no idea what he was doing. 

“This is a mistake,” he said, glaring down at the amateur sketch and haphazard palette in front of him. 

Hermione let out a little laugh. “Do you know the thousands of times I thought that very thing over the years? Hiding in the bathroom when a troll was loose in the castle. Mistake. Going down into the Chamber of Secrets. Mistake. Using a Time Turner in Third Year so I could also take the waste of time that is Divination. Huge mistake. Everything is a mistake until you learn from it, Severus.” She paused, her gaze gentle. “That said, would you like to stop?” 

He let out a harsh sigh. “No. But it’s going to look—”

“Think of Antonin,” she interrupted. “What will he say about it? Even if our crown is lopsided or too green instead of gold or only half of it makes it through the canvas because I fuck up the spell?” 

Despite his anxiety, a small smile crossed his lips. 

“Yes, you see? He’ll get teary and say something like ‘Oh, my precious, perfect little doves, you have made me a beautiful crown? I knew you thought of me as the king. It is the best, most thoughtful gift anyone has ever gotten me.’ And then he’ll probably start speaking in Russian and dabbing his eyes,” said Hermione, laughing. 

“Your mimicry is not bad,” admitted Severus.

She took a little bow in her seat and his smile grew. 

He took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready, I suppose.” 

She settled herself beside him and lifted her wand. “Nectacromus."

*****

They returned to their room around dinnertime, exhausted, but grinning like two idiots with a secret. 

Antonin was sitting on his settee with folded arms. 

“I do not think I deserved to be abandoned in such a way, my beauties,” he pouted. “You were gone for ages.” 

Hermione and Severus looked at each other with trepidation. Fools! We should've rehearsed this, thought Severus. Hermione’s eyes widened at him as if prompting him to say something. He raised his eyebrows in question and gave a tiny shake of his head. She glared. 

“Well, I was finally able to finish my book,” she burst out, turning back to the portrait. “And you still haven’t apologized for interrupting me.” She crossed her arms. Interesting strategy. Intimidate the intimidator. It could work, thought Severus. 

He could tell Antonin was taken aback. He huffed and picked at the corner of a cushion. “I know I talk quite a lot, my darling. I’m just enjoying spending time with my little doves,” he finally said. “Minerva got so fed up with me before the feast on the first day of school, she covered me with a cloth.” He turned his mournful green eyes upon them. “I’ve never gotten to attend.” 

Severus frowned. Portraits attending the feasts? He didn’t recall such a thing. Certainly not during his brief stint as Headmaster. 

Hermione’s arms dropped and her expression became one of regret. “Antonin…” 

“He’s playing you,” whispered Severus into her ear. “He still hasn’t apologized.” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

“Fine, I am sorry, moya milaya! My goodness, the two of you ganging up on your poor, suffering portrait.” He sighed and then brightened. “Now, tell me what you were up to. You were at the end of your book, dear girl, and I know it didn’t take three hours to finish…” 

“Oh, I found another book,” she said casually, edging further into the room. “The next in the series.”

“Severus?” 

“Rested my eyes.” 

“Oh, I can tell. You clearly look very well rested.” The hint of sarcasm in Antonin’s deep voice gave Severus shivers. 

“Oh, Antonin, what a lovely dinner!” exclaimed Hermione, thankfully distracting him. 

“I hope it isn’t cold,” Antonin muttered.

Fuck, they had really upset him. And Severus, well, he actually felt badly about it. The last time Hermione had disappeared, they had panicked. And then Severus himself had left…He sighed. They were all such skittish, beautiful disasters. 

“I’m sorry we stayed away so long without telling you,” Severus said in a low voice, glancing up at the green gaze of Antonin

“Thank you, Sevvy,” he said, appearing somewhat mollified. “Sit and eat, my devious doves. It will make me feel better to see you both cared for.” 

Later, after a meal of stew and crusty bread, Antonin ordered them to snuggle up together on the sofa. 

“Sevvy, you lay down. Put a pillow on your lap, my girl. Yes, your head goes on the pillow, moy prints. Ah, beautiful to see you play with his hair, darling. I like how you are growing it out, Sevvy.” 

Severus was so warm. So comfortable like this. Hermione’s hands combing through his hair had decadent chills running down his scalp. He yawned, wondering what Antonin had in store for them. The Christmas lights bobbed and twinkled above them in the dark room like little, colorful fireflies. Severus stared up at them, mesmerized. 

“Severus,” came his voice, deep and soothing. “Are you relaxed?” 

“Yes,” he murmured. He met Hermione’s eyes above him and she smiled softly down at him. 

“Do you feel safe, my Prince?” 

“Yes.” And he realized that it was true. He did feel safe. He could sense, now, what was coming, but the familiar spike of anxiety was gone. Antonin’s voice surrounded him in comforting safety and Hermione’s touch grounded him in the moment. 

“It is time?” he asked in a whisper. 

“Yes, my dear boy.” 

“Are you ready, my Sev?” came Hermione’s sweet voice above him. 

No. He would never be ready. He looked up into her beautiful eyes and admitted the truth. “No. Not really.” 

“I know,” she whispered and took his hand. “I will not let go.” 

“And you will stay within my voice and obey, Severus.” 

“Yes, Antonin,” he agreed in a low, resigned voice. 

“Close your eyes. Yes, very good. Now, first, I want you to tell us about your favorite memory of your mum, Sevvy.” 

“My–my favorite?”

“Yes, one that brings light and happiness to your heart.” 

He thought for a moment. Light? Happiness? There were…none. His favorite memory did not make him happy. Not exactly. He began telling them about the week by the sea. The sketchbook, the watercolors, the freedom he felt so far away from the horror of their home at Spinner’s End. 

“I sketched her, one morning near the end of that week,” he murmured. “My father slept in and she and I went down to the water’s edge together at sunrise. I remember…she was wearing a white dress and it fluttered in the breeze like fairy wings.” 

He was quiet for a moment. Remembering. 

“She looked so peaceful. Beautiful.” A tear broke from his lashes and slipped down his cheek. He wiped at it roughly with one hand. 

Hermione’s gentle fingers carded through his hair. 

“Let them fall, Severus. Your heart speaks even when your lips struggle with the words.” 

He was powerless, lost in the voice, and it was a relief. He was not afraid. He could feel Hermione’s hand clasped in his—could feel her other hand in his hair. And Antonin would not let him falter. So, he obeyed and let the tears wash down his face without shame. 

Eventually, he continued. 

“I sat in the sand and I sketched her while she stood, black hair blowing, feet in the water. The waves seemed to be…” 

He took a shuddering breath. 

“Calling to her. Pulling at her feet. When I think about it now, it's…ominous.” 

“What do you mean, ominous, dear boy?” 

“A warning. But she—” His voice broke off as pain slid a knife into his throat. 

“She did not listen to warnings, did she?” Antonin said, soothing the sharpness of the pain with his velvet timbre. 

“Why?” choked Severus. “Why didn't she take us away? He hit her, belittled her, drank away her money, fucking stole her light and her magic. Do you know that I don't remember what her wand looked like? She never took it out. Never. I never saw her do magic.” But that wasn’t really true was it? A memory floated up from the depths of his mind. 

“One time, when I was very young, she read me a story and made the butterfly flutter up from the page and fly around me. I laughed and tried to catch it. I remember the moment we both looked up and saw my father glaring in the doorway.” 

His voice dropped to a pained whisper. “I don’t know what happened, but after that, she never used magic. I saw her try, once, to boil water magically when we were starving and desperate. The electricity had been turned off. It didn’t work. She…couldn’t.” 

He clenched his fist and dug into the cushion of the sofa. Hermione ran soothing strokes down his other hand. 

“A deep sadness, to lose one’s magic. Her heart was broken. But not because of him, Severus. It was her own doing.” 

“W-what?” 

“A witch or wizard only loses their magic under extreme pain and sadness. We call it ‘The Broken Heart of Isobel.’ There is a story of a beautiful witch who gave her heart to a charismatic, young prince. He wooed her with sweet words and beautiful gifts. Once they were married, however, he turned cruel and violent. He had coveted her magic all along and forced her to grow his wealth under pain of death. She wasted away, sadness and despair her only companions, but despite her pain, she continued to try to please her husband, so desperate was she for love and kindness. He took her wand and hid it, bringing it out only to force her hand to spell jewels and gold into existence. There came a day when he put her wand in her hand and no magic came forth. He raged and beat her but there was nothing left within her. Her heart was broken and her magical core snuffed out. Your mother suffered the fate of Isobel, but I do not believe it was your father who broke her heart. I think it was because she failed you, Severus. She did not protect you and it tore her apart.” 

“No,” said Severus, shaking his head. He opened his eyes and glared up into Antonin’s glittering green. “It was my job to protect her! And I failed!” 

“Darling boy, it is the parent who protects the child. Not the other way around.”

“No! You’re wrong!” raged Severus. He began gasping, seething, and a rushing filled his ears. 

“Severus!” His sharp, gravelly voice cut through the noise, as it always did. “Feel the comfort and care wrapped around you…our little dove’s hand in yours.” 

She squeezed. Hard. And yes. Oh yes, delicate fingers that belied such strength. 

“Feel her fingers in your hair, stroking, smoothing.” 

She tugged the strands a little harder and he groaned. The tingles brought him out of the pain and she did it again. He shivered. 

“Hear my voice and know that you are not alone. You do nothing without my command, yes?” 

“Yes,” he moaned. 

“You are not alone. We are here and we will not let go, Severus. Breathe.” 

He sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. 

“Again.” 

He kept breathing, kept following Antonin’s commands, until his fury lessened.  

“Now, Severus. Tell us the story of your mother’s death while we hold you close.” 

Hermione tightened her hand and nodded. He blinked up at her with such intensity in his heart, he felt he must be glowing. Burning. 

“Wrapped in love, Severus,” said Antonin with firm reassurance. 

“It was…” he started in a low voice. “It was the same as any other day with him. He came back from the pub, drunk and staggering. Vicious. Usually, he would just fall into bed and sleep it off, only to start over the next day. But sometimes…” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes he would want her to join him. He would grab at her. This time, something snapped within me. I told him no, she wasn’t going with him. He laughed at me, just like everyone else laughed at me back then.” 

He remembered the rage. It had surged through his body like a sickness and turned everything red. 

“I lunged at him and he–he reared back and swung. I remember the crack. I heard it before I felt it. And–and suddenly, I was on the floor. Everything was spinning…there was a blinding pain in my head. But I s-saw him, through the blood in my eyes, on top of her, a-and she was…silent. I tried to get up but it made me sick.” 

“Slow down, Severus,” Antonin’s voice cut in and Severus realized he was gasping, heaving. He tried to slow his breaths but it was impossible 

“I want you to shift up against Hermione. Little dove, turn and rest your back against the arm of the sofa. Sevvy, yes, just like that, your back against her front. Are you comfortable, little dove?” 

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around Severus from behind and he bent his arm to take her hand once again. 

“Now feel her breaths, my Prince, deep and even. You will match her, yes? She will bring you into her calm…her peace.” 

He closed his eyes and nodded. Her chest moved up and down behind him, slow and steady, and after a while, he fell into her rhythm. It felt so right, to be breathing her breaths, to be matched to her heartbeat. He belonged within her arms. There was nowhere else he’d rather be. 

“Antonin?” he said in a low voice. 

“Yes, Sevvy?” 

“I want it out.” 

“You are so close, love, but we must take care. It is a splinter you are attempting to draw out. Too fast and it will break and fester. And you will keep searching for the wound with your blade. We must pull it out cleanly. Keep breathing.” 

He did as he was told and felt his body relax. His head ceased its painful throb. Hermione summoned a cup of water and he thirstily drank it down. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Are you ready, my brave Prince?” 

He nodded and Hermione’s arms tightened around him. He gripped her hand and took a deep breath. 

“I threw myself against him in an attempt to get him off of her. I think I blacked out for a few seconds. The next thing I remember, I was looking down at her and she was gray. Except for–except for the–the purple–around her neck.” 

Hermione kissed his temple, his hair, his neck. One hand began smoothing over his chest in warm strokes. 

“And you father, Sevvy?” 

“Gone. He ran.” 

“What did you do, dear boy?” 

“I didn’t know what to do. I just lay there with her, sick out of my mind, in and out of consciousness.”

“How old were you?” asked Hermione in a soft voice. 

“Seventeen. It was during the summer after Sixth Year.” He frowned. “I had tried everything in my power not to go back home between terms. But there was no money and nowhere else to go. Lily had stopped speaking to me and I didn’t have any other friends. No guest room to stay in. Except…” 

“Who?” asked Antonin in a low voice. 

Severus looked up at him, agonized. “Nott and Malfoy. They were pressuring me at the time. Asking me to join Voldemort’s Death Eaters. They were persuasive, talking about wealth and power and a group of fearsome wizards who would defend their own. They said I was a Prince and that was good enough. I resisted because it sounded too good to be true. It sounded like bullshit, and I was especially attuned to bullshit at the time. But after, when I was alone in that house at Spinner’s End, I didn’t know what to do. So, I sent my Patronus. Lucius came. He…he took care of everything.”

“Everything?”

“Used his money and influence to sweep everything under the rug. Made arrangements for her…body. Cremated the Muggle way. I did not even get to say goodbye.” He choked out a sob. “Nott told me that they searched for my father, but they never found him.” He looked up at the portrait with tears in his eyes. “They never found him, Antonin!” 

Antonin spat out a curse in Russian. “He is dead, Severus. Such a poor excuse for a man would not live long.” 

Severus sniffed and nodded. He hoped the fucker died a horrible death. He hoped he was burning in hell. “Lucius took me to Malfoy Manor for the rest of the summer. Got me back on my feet. And that’s when I knew.” 

“Knew what?” asked Hermione softly. 

“That I would have to join the Death Eaters. Take the mark. They let me wait until I finished Seventh Year, and then, almost immediately after, my arm was burned and I was his. Another of the Dark Lord’s possessions.” 

“None of it was your fault, Severus,” said Antonin. 

“No, because that’s where you’re wrong,” said Severus heatedly. “I am the architect of my own demise. I could’ve used magic. I could’ve saved her as soon as I had a wand in my hand in First Year. But I didn’t. I hid it. I was so pathetically terrified of him. My wand was stuck in the hem of my robes, shoved into the back of my closet.” His voice rose, tearing out of him. 

“If I had just stopped to think for a fucking minute, I could’ve just sliced him open with one spell. It was written on the margins of my fucking textbook! He was the reason I spent weeks working on Septumsempra instead of sleeping. FUCK,” he roared. “There were so many spells I could’ve used, but I never raised my fucking wand against him. Why? Why, Antonin? We could’ve been free!” He was screaming, fucking furious. “I did this. I failed her and my punishment was an entire life of only pain and suffering and servitude. It’s what I deserve.” He wrenched himself out of Hermione’s arms and stood. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he hissed at her. “I don’t even deserve a violent ex-Death Eater on my wall trying to fucking help me. I should have died! Nagini was meant to kill me and then I would be free from this guilt, this pain, this overwhelming loneliness!” 

RUN, RUN, RUN. The voice was relentless now, furious, spitting at him with anger and venom. 

He lunged at the door, grabbed the handle, and—and it would not open. 

He whirled around. Hermione was standing, wand in hand, and oh fuck, she looked—terrifying. Her eyes were narrowed, burning upon him, and her stance was one of power. Her curls stood on end as magic flickered across her body. 

“No, Severus,” she said in a low voice. “You will not run from us.” 

He drew his wand and sneered at her.  

“Stop, Severus.” Antonin’s voice was a whip and it cracked over him with deadly precision. 

Oh god. Oh fuck. 

What was he doing? 

What the fuck was he doing? 

Horrified, he dropped his wand and it clattered to the ground. 

Hermione did not move. Her eyes still burned upon him. The air was fraught with danger and wild magic. 

“Little dove?” 

She blinked. And took a step forward, still pointing her wand. “You will not leave me,” she said in a trembling voice. “You will not leave me, Severus Snape.” 

He began shaking his head. “No. I’m so sorry, princess. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

She lowered her wand and ran, sprinted, straight into his open arms. He caught her, grabbed her, held her. 

“You let go,” she sobbed into his shoulder. 

“I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“No, my Prince. I’m so fucking sorry,” she repeated back and held him close while he shook in her arms. “I’m here,” she whispered over and over. “I won't let go."

“My loves, comfort now. Kisses. Severus, the splinter is out. Dove, he is not leaving.” 

They found themselves on the cool stone of the floor. Hermione clutched him as if she could not bear to let go and he couldn’t bear it if she did. They kissed. Roughly. Passionately. Helplessly. 

“Calm, my dears. The wound is bare and open. You must take care. I think…yes, it is time for a bath in the big pool. Severus, take up your wand. Start the water.” 

“Yes, Antonin.” 

*****

The water was hot and steaming. Severus went in first and waded over to the long bench across the back of the bath. He stretched his arms wide and rested his head against the edge. It was a pool, really. Deep and wide. He could hear Antonin speaking to Hermione, calming her, telling her how beautiful she was, how perfectly she had supported her Severus. It made him want to smile, even if he could not force his lips to move. He closed his eyes and slowly went through each muscle group on his body, unclenching them one at a time. 

“Hi,” came a voice, soft and sweet. 

His eyes flickered open. She was naked, a goddess, and she walked into the water with swaying hips and a small smile upon her lips. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured. 

She reached him and sighed when he enfolded her into his arms. Their skin slid together, wet and smooth like silk.  

“Antonin says only to wash and relax,” she said. 

He nodded. He was so weary. It had been exhausting, sucking out the poisonous splinter of his wound. So he let his witch carefully wash him from head to toe, lathering soap all over his body and pouring water down his skin. She made him turn to wash his back and his eyes closed when he felt her hands dig into his muscles in a massage that went on and on, until he was boneless and his vision was hazy. 

He didn’t remember leaving the bath, but he must have, because the next thing he knew, it was dark and his princess was draped across him in bed sleeping peacefully, her curls damp and her hand clenched around his fingers.

“Antonin?” he murmured sleepily.

“I am here, my brave Prince.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You are most welcome, my dear boy. It is not over, you know this? There is so much more you must work through.” 

“Yes.” 

“I know of a good mind healer outside of the village. He is safe, Sevvy, I have verified it through several trusted sources. I believe he will be of great help to you. This cutting you do…it is serious, sweet Prince, and must be approached with sensitivity and care. If you accept, there is already an appointment set aside for you after the New Year.” 

Severus was quiet for a moment. 

“But, why can’t you—”

“I am not qualified, dear boy. I wish so fervently that I could be the one to help you through this, but I am a mere portrait and I do not know how to heal minds. I love you and I love our Hermione…you must work for your peace, Severus, and accept help from an expert. This is one command I will not give you. Instead, I will tell you that I believe you can do this, my brave, strong Prince.” 

Severus let Antonin’s words sink into the deepest, darkest part of him. It had been hard…letting them both in. He never would’ve allowed it without the curse…without Antonin’s growled commands and Hermione's gentle touches. He had been alone for so long. Drowning, but self-sufficient nonetheless. And now, because of them, he was going to take the greatest leap of all. 

“Okay,” he said finally. “I accept. I will go to the appointment.” 

“I am very proud of you.” 

Warmth bloomed in his heart. “Antonin?”

“Yes, Sevvy?”

“I love you too, I think. I’m still learning what love is but…I think I do.” 

“Oh, Sevvy, you are perfect. You are so loved and so loving. Our witch will bloom before your eyes, just wait. You are hers and she is yours. I do not think she will have it any other way.” 

“But…” Severus hesitated. 

“But what, love?”

“What will we do without you?” he asked in a small voice.

“You will be fine.” 

“But I’ve never…I don’t know what I’m doing, Antonin.”

“I will show you the way. It is coming soon. She is close, I can tell, but she has been suppressing it as long as she can in order to take care of you.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Oh, Sevvy, the first time is nothing to fear. Awkward and strange, perhaps at the start, but I will help you through it, until it becomes beautiful and wild and filled with pleasure. You will fracture in her arms and she will break for you in return. And all the while, I will keep you both safe. It is my greatest joy, caring for my sweet doves.” 

“I want to give her the world.” 

“But you are worried. Why, moy prints?” 

“I am not…strong enough for her. Good enough.” 

“You are, Sevvy. The bravest of us all. Braver than I, dear boy.” 

Severus took a deep breath and let Antonin’s words smooth over him like a balm. 

“Antonin?”

“Yes, my beautiful Sev?” 

“When are you going to tell her how to break the curse?” 

There was a long silence. 

“When did you figure—”

“I don't want you to,” he begged, interrupting. “Please.” 

“Severus.”

“I can't–I won't be able to–”

“You will, Prince of my heart.” 

He let out a long sigh. “When?”

“After Christmas,” he finally said with such deep sadness in his voice, that Severus felt tears well up in his eyes. “I will not keep her trapped, Severus. She must be free.” 

“After Christmas,” he whispered back, and hugged his witch closer. 

Chapter Text

Antonin smoothed his cuffs once more and ran his glittering eyes over Severus. 

“So handsome,” he said with a devilish grin. 

Severus shifted uncomfortably in his new-fangled dress robes. They were considerably tighter than the old style. “Fitted,” Antonin had said. “Soon it will be all the rage.” Severus still didn't understand how the hell he knew all the latest fashions. 

The ensemble was also gray instead of his classic black. “My Prince no longer looks like an overgrown bat!” Severus pressed his lips together and glared at him. “A little color makes your eyes shine, Sevvy. You look perfect.” 

Slightly mollified, he ran his fingers down the buttons of his dress shirt and took a deep breath.

“Nice of Minerva to put up an enchanted still-life of a feast,” Antonin went on.

“You badgered her incessantly until she relented.” 

Antonin ignored him. “There was quite a vicious fight between the Fat Lady and Sir Cadogan over who would get the honored seat in the middle of the table, you know.” He curved his hand around his mouth as if telling a secret. “The Fat Lady won, of course. Vicious woman. I’ve always liked her.” 

“Why aren't you sitting in the ‘honored seat’, King Antonin?” 

“I like the way you say that, my Prince.” Antonin flashed him a heated look. “It was too much fun watching them squabble. Besides, I wanted to sit as close to my beauties as possible, so I am at the end nearest to the frame. Imagine a table like Da Vinci’s Last Supper and I am in Simon’s seat.” He winked at him. 

Severus nodded. Of course Antonin had secured a perfect still-life for the banquet through endless nagging and manipulation. Of course he had instigated a fight about seating that had surely caused ridiculous histrionics within the portrait community. And of course, he had, at the end of it, gotten exactly what he wanted. 

“How do I look?” came a soft voice from the bathroom doorway. 

Severus whirled around and immediately lost all ability to speak. It appeared Antonin did as well because the room was silent as they both gaped in wonder at the beautiful creature standing before them. 

Hermione was dressed in a bright green gown that hugged her curves and flowed like liquid down her body. Thin, delicate straps rested upon her shoulders and when she slowly spun for them, he saw that the gorgeous expanse of her back was almost completely bare. The bodice of the gown came to a vee that showed just a hint of décolletage. Her small waist was accentuated by a tight strip of silk. And below her stomach, the green silk had been gathered in a twist that showed off the curve of her exquisite hips. The satiny fabric of the dress swirled and shifted delectably around her legs as she moved, bringing a warm flush to Severus’s cheeks as he watched. 

Her glossy curls were swept up in a simple chignon and a delicate gold chain sparkled around her neck.  

When his eyes finally made it back up to her face, she was smiling.  

“My men are speechless,” she said with laughter in her voice. 

“If my artist had painted me a heart, it would have stopped in my chest, moya milaya. You look radiant, stunning, exquisite, my princess! There are not enough words to describe your beauty.” He launched into a flurry of Russian that sounded like poetry. 

She bowed her head gracefully. “Thank you, Antonin. You look quite handsome yourself. Did someone freshen up your paint?” 

“The beautiful man before you is to thank for that, my dear. Isn't he perfect?” 

Hermione sauntered up to a flush-faced Severus and he found himself holding his breath. Seeing her like this…radiating quiet confidence and shy humor…he was awestruck, entranced, undone . 

“It will be very difficult to keep my hands off of you,” she murmured. 

“Then don’t,” he replied hoarsely. 

She cocked her head, causing the few loose curls falling from her chignon to spill over her delicate shoulder. 

“Throw caution to the wind?” she said, stepping into his arms and leaning up on her tiptoes. He skated his hand down her bare back and relished the goosebumps that spread across her skin. She shivered and let out the barest hint of a moan. 

“One kiss allowed, so make it count,” said Antonin indulgently. “We don't want to be late.”

They came together softly, gently. The brush of a snowflake falling on warm lips. 

“Remind me why we are going to this thing?” he said against her mouth. 

“To get a break from Antonin’s obscene sculpture, of course.” 

He huffed out a reluctant laugh. Honestly, in the chaos of the day before, Severus had completely forgotten about the ice sculpture and nearly spat his morning coffee all over Hermione when the thing shifted with a startlingly loud grind of ice. When it was done moving, the three of them stood, enshrined in ice, sharing a three-way kiss—a naked three-way kiss. 

“Oh, it’s Christmas Eve! The charm has activated,” clapped Antonin with delight. 

Hermione giggled. “Look at their twisting tongues. Like little, icy snakes.” 

“It is an ice sculpture, love. Not a perfect likeness,” said Antonin, attempting to peer closer from his portrait. 

“Sure,” she nodded, eyes twinkling. “And why is your bum so much more…muscular than Sev’s?” 

“Well!” he spluttered. “I am bigger, my darling. Lots of time to do the lunges and the pushups in Azkaban, little dove.” 

Severus, now noticing the vast difference, glared at him. His arse was not that flat! Was it? Shit, should he do some lunges? He'd always been thin, but now, with all the regular meals, he was filling out nicely. Perhaps it was time to start an exercise regime? No thank you, he thought with disgust. Perhaps just walks with his princess would do. And then he berated himself for thinking of a future that did not yet exist. 

Hermione tapped a finger to her lip as she walked around the sculpture with the air of a sophisticated art curator. “Also, I don’t think my breasts—”

“Enough!” exploded Antonin. “The sculpture was not meant to be scrutinized to this degree. It was meant to–to–” 

Hermione and Severus both raised their eyebrows at him, waiting. 

“–to make us laugh!” he finished with an emerald glare. 

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” 

“Now, listen here, ved’mochka,” Antonin growled, taking a step forward in his frame. 

Her eyes glowed back up at him and they both held each other’s fiery gaze for a moment. Severus watched their interaction with a strange heat blooming in his stomach…and lower. 

“Oh, stop, I’m just giving you a hard time,” Hermione finally said with a defiant eye roll that did not match the pink flush of her cheeks. Severus realized that perhaps she liked pushing their imperious king, just a bit. And apparently, he liked to watch. Fuck, this day was giving him some rather uncomfortable realizations, all because of that damned enchanted ice. 

“I wonder what position it will take next,” she mused.  

Antonin narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her. “Just you wait, my judgmental little princess.”

From then on, every hour on the hour came the tell-tale grinding and shifting of ice. 

“Well, that position seems difficult,” said Hermione about her figure kneeling as she took Sev’s cock in her mouth and Antonin lay under her, icy tongue delving within her pussy. Despite her casual words, Severus, blushing furiously himself, could see her chest rising and falling more rapidly than usual. Never in his sexually innocent life had he contemplated such a position.

An hour later—

“You see how our princess would take me down her throat while she grinds upon your perfect cock?” said Antonin while Severus hid behind a book to avoid the scene before him. 

“Delusional fantasy,” he said through clenched teeth, turning his entire body away from the wretched thing. 

Despite the increasingly acrobatic poses of their icy counterparts, Severus found, to his horror, he was slowly getting more and more aroused. His cock stayed halfway hard for most of the day. At one point, the sculpture shifted, showing Severus caught between Hermione and Antonin and, oh god, the heat that pulsed through him! He shifted uncomfortably in his joggers and awkwardly walked to the kitchenette to suck down a cold cup of water. What a liar! Antonin had done this purely to torture and mortify them both. 

Now, after being in a state of semi-arousal all day, he kissed his princess and ran his hands down her silky green gown that left little to the imagination. His cock gave a hopeful throb and his mind filled with thoughts of icy positions and heated skin. 

“We are going to the banquet,” Antonin chimed in, answering Severus’s question, “because it’s Christmas Eve and it can be enjoyable to spend time with a festive group of friends.” 

“They are not my friends,” said Severus with dark conviction. 

“You might be surprised, dear boy.” 

“Two hours.” 

Antonin rolled his eyes. “Royalty doesn't leave early.” 

“We are not—” 

“Enough, Sevvy.”

He let out a frustrated sigh and Hermione slipped her hand into his. 

“Sit next to me?” she whispered and his heart gave a strange little thump that she wanted him so close. Like a lover. Like a protector. 

“It is already arranged,” assured Antonin with a wave of his hand. 

“But…won’t people…” The cute little wrinkle between her eyes appeared along with her unspoken worry. 

“Ah, but the two of you will appear innocent, my dove. It is quite a large crowd. Witches and wizards from the village have been invited and this year is especially celebratory. There will be all the best foods made by the elves and all the finest wines and whiskeys from the Hogwarts cellar. Have care that you do not act too familiar, but enjoy yourselves and don’t worry. I doubt anyone will pay close attention, and certainly not after a glass or two of Ogden’s finest. Besides, I will be ever watchful from my perch right by your table.” 

Severus was not reassured and he could tell by the doubt written on Hermione’s face that she was not either. Despite her renewed strength and blossoming health, she was still cursed and her situation was precarious. He would not jeopardize her future, even if it meant letting go of her hand for a few awful hours. 

“Severus, you will go ahead of us. Be on your way now, my handsome peacock. Hermione will arrive in five minutes, no more, so don’t fret.” 

But he did fret. He fretted the entire walk down to the Great Hall. The only consolation was that the new dress robes billowed behind him quite nicely. 

When he arrived at the large doorway, he saw that the student House tables had been removed in favor of smaller, round tables and the large space was filled with holiday decor. Was it tastefully elegant, as one might expect at an old castle institution? Fuck no. It was as if Christmas had exploded into tinsel, trees, and twinkling lights. This had Flitwick’s magical signature all over it. 

“Severus, welcome,” said Minerva, peering at him from over her spectacles as she came striding over. “So glad you came.” Her voice was warm, gracious, and Severus attempted kindness in return. 

“Thank you for having me,” he intoned and gave a little bow. 

She blinked at him with raised eyebrows. “The staff are always invited, Severus. It is our one chance to, if you'll excuse my slang, ‘let loose’ away from the prying eyes of our students. Can I get you a glass of…something?” 

“No—” 

“Here,” she said, handing him her own fresh glass of champagne. “Live a little.” 

“Right,” he said, gingerly holding the flute. 

“Ah, Madam Rosmerta has arrived. I shall go greet her and arrange for the elves to come pick up her contribution to the festivities. A mulled mead of her own secret recipe. You must try some later, it's divine. You're at table six, by that damned painting of yours.” 

And then she was gone. 

Severus looked around and spotted the enchanted golden six hovering over a round table near the wall. Holy shit. He looked up at the giant painting, at least three meters wide and two meters tall, of a large table filled with painted goblets, jugs of wine, a glistening turkey, blocks of cheese, bowls of fruit, and good god, was that a peacock pie adorned in actual feathers? There were at least thirty chairs situated around the food-laden still life and he could see various portrait residents beginning to come into the frame and find their seats. Severus blinked. He should not have been surprised. Antonin was very effective at getting what he wanted, as he had proved many times over. King, indeed. 

The chair marked for Severus was placed on the side of the table with the wall behind him so that he could see the entirety of the room while also remaining somewhat in the shadows. Suddenly, he was quite grateful for his meddling portrait, who clearly knew how to make him feel safe in a large crowd. The little placard at the place-setting next to him read “Miss Hermione Granger” in curling script and, when he saw it, he breathed a sigh of relief. The others at their table were acquaintances he did not know well from the village and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor that he hadn’t bothered to properly meet. The man’s placard put him on Hermione’s other side. Great. He better keep his hands, eyes, feet, and everything else off his witch or he would lose them, thought Severus darkly. He took a sip of the champagne and grimaced as the bubbles fizzed across his tongue. It was delicious, dammit.  

He knew the second Hermione entered the Great Hall. A hush fell across the crowd before awed whispers grew into louder voices. Severus glared down at the tiny, bursting bubbles of his champagne. He did not like this. Not one bit. 

“Minerva’s got her,” Antonin said mildly from behind him and Severus turned and glared at him, masking the surge of relief he felt at his presence. Antonin sat down in a gilded chair (literally,  the artist must have used gold paint) that was practically on top of Severus’s left shoulder. 

“They’re all staring at her,” he muttered, scanning the room. 

“She is a beautiful and gracious printsessa. But she has eyes only for her Prince, Professor Snape.” Severus wasn’t about to admit that Antonin’s use of his professional name did things to him. 

Sure enough, Hermione met his eyes and began walking towards him, never breaking their heated connection. Fucking risky, thought Severus with dark delight as he stood and drew out her chair next to him. 

Then, aghast, he watched as a figure intercepted her and blocked his view. Fucking hell! It was the young and very handsome Professor Beaumont. When he offered Hermione his arm to escort her the rest of the way to her seat, Severus almost let out a growl that would have echoed across the entire hall. Hermione politely declined and pointed next to Severus. 

He heard her say, “I’m just there,” and Beaumont responded, “Lucky me. It appears we’ll get a chance to get to know each other better!” And Severus wanted to punch something. 

“Professor Snape,” said Hermione lightly and inclined her head as he gallantly bowed and rested his hand on her chair. 

“Thank you,” she murmured and sat gracefully. Her eyes flickered to the wall and her lips twitched at Antonin’s bold wink. Severus frowned disapprovingly. Were they both trying to give him a heart attack? 

“Severus!” exclaimed the young professor with a warm smile. “So good to see you!” 

“Beaumont. And you may call me Professor Snape.” 

“As long as you call me Freddie. In casual situations such as this, of course,” he responded cheerfully. “I mean, just not in front of the students. As if you would do that. You're always so proper, Severus.” He laughed nervously. It was unsettling how direct his gaze was…straight into Severus’s eyes. 

“Miss Granger,” he said, turning to Hermione with a wide smile. “What can I get you to drink?” 

Severus sank down in his seat and glowered. 

In response, Hermione leaned forward and spoke directly into her empty champagne flute. “Champagne, please.” They watched as the glass magically filled. 

“Still learning the ropes?” Hermione asked Professor Beaumont with a polite smile. 

“Clearly. But how delightful! RED WINE,” he enunciated to his own glass. He gasped with wonder as it filled. 

Severus fought not to roll his eyes. He failed. Behind him, Antonin made a disapproving sound. Great. Now he was being admonished from the wall for being rude. 

“So, Miss Granger,” said Beaumont, now sitting and leaning far too close, in Severus’s opinion. “You are not taking Defense Against the Dark Arts NEWT level? Such a shame that you are not in my class!” 

“No…I…” Hermione took a sip of champagne, clearly uncomfortable. Severus could see her fingers picking at the napkin in her lap. His heart ached with not touching her, not holding that trembling hand. 

She cleared her throat. “Well, I had enough of all that…” She trailed off and her expression became pained…lost. 

“Do you even know who you are speaking to?” Severus said to Beaumont in a low voice. “Miss Granger was at the front lines of the war. It was her invaluable contributions that allowed Potter to kill Voldemort once and for all. She is an expert in Dark Arts defense spells. Your class,” he sneered, “would have been a waste of her time.” 

He held Beaumont’s gaze until a flush climbed up his neck and he looked away with embarrassment. 

“Right,” he said sheepishly. “I did know that. I spoke thoughtlessly and I apologize, Miss Granger.”

Severus looked down at Hermione only to find her face an expressionless mask. Shit. Had he said something wrong? Her eyes were glazed over as she gulped more champagne. Yes. He had definitely fucked up. Beaumont stuttered out another apology. 

“It’s all right,” she finally said faintly. “My course load is quite full anyway. How are you enjoying teaching?” A clear attempt to change the subject. It was what Severus should've done if he wasn't such an absolute git. He pointedly did not look at Antonin, unable to bear his disappointment. 

Severus sat in sickening silence as he watched the young professor launch into a starry-eyed description of his students, their achievements in his class, and how much he was enjoying the castle and the grounds. He excitedly suggested he might help Madame Hooch referee the Quidditch matches next year. “Oh you didn't know I played?” On and on, he talked while Hermione listened politely with her back turned to Severus. 

Miserable, Severus twisted and braved a look up at Antonin, who gave him a reassuring smile. 

“Comfort,” he mouthed at him. 

Comfort? Hermione was upset? Obviously. Her face was a mask of aloof politeness and, now that he looked more closely, her shoulders were tense. And her champagne? Gone. 

Clink, clink, clink. 

“May I have your attention, please?” Minerva stood in the middle of the Great Hall with a wine glass and a wand in her hand. “Honored guests, please indulge me in a little speech I’ve prepared to honor this occasion. You see, I’ve grown quite sentimental in my middle age,” there were a few titters of laughter and she arched an eyebrow at the crowd, “but we have much to celebrate during this joyful holiday season.” 

Severus stopped listening. Thankfully, Professor Idiot Beaumont had turned his entire body to face Minerva and was watching her with rapt attention. Slowly, oh so slowly, Severus reached out and slid his hand across Hermione’s silk-clad thigh to grasp the hand that was twisting in her napkin. She clung to his fingers immediately and let out a long, silent breath. He tightened his grip and watched with an aching heart as her eyelashes fluttered and her shoulders loosened. 

“I’m sorry.” He spoke so low and quietly that only the bond would pick up his words and deliver them to her ears. In response, she ran her thumb over his knuckles over and over again. Now it was his turn to let out a calming breath. He glanced up at Antonin with what he hoped was clear gratitude on his face. 

“Relax,” the portrait mouthed and lifted a glass. The whole room lifted their glasses with him. Severus’s eyes widened until he realized Minerva was wrapping up her speech. 

“Though we forever grieve for those we lost, it is time to look to a future free from darkness and tyranny. It is a new dawn for wizard-kind! One that we will embrace with hope and love in our hearts. Happy Christmas to you all!” 

A great cheer rose from the crowd and a burst of fireworks startled both Severus and Hermione. Glitter rained down in a shimmering curtain of red, green, and gold and dissipated with a crackle midair. The band struck up a lively Christmas tune and all the serving bowls and platters suddenly filled with food. 

Hermione pulled her hand away, clearly skittish now that the attention of the crowd was no longer on Minerva. The occupants of their table turned and began filling their plates. The atmosphere was cheerful as everyone laughed and talked and drank heavily. Severus placed his now cold and empty hand in his lap, bowed his head, and attempted to eat. He could see Hermione in his periphery doing the same. Why had Antonin insisted that they come? thought Severus despondently. 

An hour later, he was fucking done with the whole fete. Everyone was drunk, including him, he suspected fuzzily. Hermione was now giggling with Beaumont about some kind of nonsense related to the broken staircase on the fourth floor. Behind him, Antonin was loudly arguing with Professor Shah, a portrait whose frame hung at the top of the Astronomy tower where she had taught in the 19th century. They seemed about to come to blows about Sputnik versus the American No-Maj Apollo missions. For fuck’s sake, thought Severus, rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, the center of the Great Hall had been cleared and, to his absolute fucking horror, the dancing had begun. 

“Hern-ione, Her-hermione, would you do me the honor of this dance?” said Beaumont, standing and offering his hand with an exaggerated bow. 

“No thank you, I must decline,” she said softly, her smile fading. 

“Severus, then? Would you—” Beaumont’s hopeful eyes shifted to his and widened at the promise of violence threaded within the glare Severus shot his way. 

“Ah, I see. Well, thank you both for a very lovely evening,” he said gallantly. “I’m off to go find a dance partner.” And Severus watched with dark delight as the young man went weaving off into the crowd. Their table was now blessedly empty. It was just the two of them once again, thank Salazar. 

“He needs to find a Sober Up potion,” said Severus with disgust. 

“Oh dear, Sevvy,” laughed Antonin from behind. 

Just the three of them. 

“What?” he snapped. “Can we go now?” 

“One dance,” said Antonin, pointing to the large crowd gyrating like fools to some upbeat number. Jingle Bell something. Even Minerva was showing some rather nimble hip movements for a woman her age. That’s going to hurt tomorrow, he thought grimly. He turned back to find Hermione looking at him with delicate hope. 

“Dance with me, Severus,” she whispered. 

Oh. Oh no. Dance? With him? In front of the crowd of his colleagues and the dreadful Beaumont, who was now chatting up Flitwick with animated hand gestures? 

“It wouldn’t be…appropriate,” he said in a low voice and his heart sank as disappointment flooded her expression. 

“It is Christmas, Severus. They are all quite tipsy. It is perfectly appropriate. One dance. I insist,” said Antonin. 

“I don’t think…” 

“I command it,” Antonin growled and flashed his green eyes at Severus. 

“Fine.” 

He turned to Hermione and took a deep breath. 

“My princess,” he said in a soft voice. “Yes, it would give me great pleasure to dance with you.”

Her smile was radiant. It eased the sickening doubt and calmed his fear of the crowd’s reaction. Instead, he felt only pride as he escorted the most beautiful woman in the entire Great Hall to the dance floor. And of course. Of course the music shifted into a hauntingly beautiful rendition of ‘Silent Night’ played by a single cello. 

Most of the crowd on the dance floor immediately coupled up, sliding arms around each other and swaying to the music with sentimental sadness written upon their faces.  

Severus led Hermione to a space near the dark corner of the dance floor and took her in his arms. As his hands spanned her waist and drew her close, she trembled and looked up at him with such longing in her eyes, it took his breath away. She gently placed her hands on his shoulders and they began swaying to the music. The warmth of her body seeped into his skin, into his very soul, and showed him in stark contrast the cold emptiness of not being able to touch her for two hours. It had been hell and now he knew, for certain, he would not spend another second of his life without her. 

The music cocooned them in deep, warm notes and the rest of the world faded away. There was only her. The smooth silk of her gown under his hands, the velvet brown of her eyes gazing up at him, her hands pressing into the muscles of his arms, and the scent of her, clean and warm, wrapping him in cozy familiarity. 

“You are beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers endlessly caressing her back. 

“So are you, my Sev,” she said softly. 

*****

Hermione left the Great Hall first. Antonin escorted her through the portraits, thank Salazar. His dazzling princess was a bit unsteady. Severus did not wait long to follow. 

“Severus, a moment, please!” 

He rolled his eyes and walked faster. 

“Severus!” Beaumont caught up to him, gasping. 

“It’s Professor Snape,” he ground out. 

“Professor Snape,” he gasped. “I just wanted to ask you.” He paused and bent over to catch his breath. “Sorry. Had to run all this way. You didn’t hear me calling?”

“No.” 

“Well, I wanted to tell you I really enjoyed spending this evening with Hermione…and with you, of course, and I was just wondering if…” 

He stopped and turned. “No, Professor Beaumont, Miss Granger is not available for you to pursue. She has made it very clear she is focusing on her studies after surviving the trauma of a war and I will not have you distracting, bothering, or stalking after her as she attempts to recover from her ordeal!” he snapped in a vicious tone. 

“No–no, you misunderstand,” said Beaumont with wide eyes. 

“I don’t have time for this,” Severus sighed. All he wanted was to peel off these dress robes and climb into bed with his princess pressed into his chest and her hair wrapped around his hand. 

“I wanted to ask you out,” Beaumont said quickly, breathlessly. “I…mean, erm, ask you if you’d like to get coffee in the village sometime. I would enjoy getting to know you better.” 

Severus blinked as the strange and confusing words registered in his brain. Him? Coffee? 

“Whyever for?” he burst out incredulously. 

Beaumont shrugged. “You’re dark. Mysterious. A war hero. Handsome as fuc—very handsome. What’s not to like?” He gave him a tentative smile. 

An uncomfortable flush climbed up Severus's neck in a prickle of heat. 

He cleared his throat. “While I appreciate the offer, erm, Freddie, I must inform you that I am…” 

In love with Hermione Granger. In love with Hermione Granger. The words were crystal clear in his mind. Bright and shining and vivid, like all the stars in the night sky. I am in love with Hermione Granger, he thought with wonder. It was so simple. Easy. 

“...in love with someone,” he finished in a distracted murmur. 

“Ah,” said Freddie with a sheepish smile. “Of course you are. I am not surprised.” He stuck out his hand. “Then, I hope we can be friends?” 

Severus nodded and shook the young man’s hand before turning and floating down the hallway towards his quarters. In love. In love with Hermione. His witch. The Princess to his Prince. 

He had been so afraid of the word that he hadn’t realized that he had been feeling love all this time. The warmth in his chest, the craving for her closeness, the desire to see her happy, the throb of his heart each time she smiled and laughed. Not long ago, he had imagined that loving her would crack him open and consume him. He had been wrong. Loving her healed the cracks of his shattered heart and brought him a calm, beautiful peace. 

The ice portrait was thankfully dormant when he got into the room, the three of them frozen in an embrace. Chaste. Cozy. Ice Antonin has his arms around Severus and Hermione, holding them both close, and all three of them had smiles on their frozen lips. Hermione’s head was tilted back as she looked up at Antonin and Sev’s gaze was locked on her. Their hands were threaded together. 

He stood staring at it for a long moment, lost in thought. Hermione padded over to him, barefoot, and slipped her hand into his. 

“We don’t have him for much longer, do we?” she whispered and he saw tears glittering in her eyes. 

He slowly shook his head, tears coming to his own eyes. “No, my princess. He is going to free you.” 

“And what if…” Hermione laid her head against his arm. “What if I don’t want to be freed?” 

“Neither of us can bear to see you suffer.” 

“Do I look like I’m suffering?” She took a step back and spun around. The green dress flowed like water around her. Then, she stumbled and Sev caught her in his arms.

“You’ve had quite a bit of champagne, my darling,” came Antonin’s deep voice from the wall. 

“Oh, boo,” she said, waving a dismissive hand at him. 

He laughed and she twinkled up at him. 

“It’s time for bed, my loves.” 

“Severus,” said Hermione, looking over her shoulder seductively. “Can you please unzip me?” 

What was his witch up to? Antonin looked down at her with dark green eyes. Severus came up behind her and breathed on her shoulder before pressing a kiss to the flush that had spread across her skin. He trailed his fingers down her bare back to the short zipper right at the curve of her arse. Slowly, he pulled it down. Hermione drew in her shoulders and the thin straps slipped down her arms. The dress slid down her curves, slowly revealing her body one delectable bit at a time before pooling on the floor. She was not wearing a bra so she was left standing in a tiny scrap of lacy green knickers.

“Fuck,” whispered Severus at the same time that Antonin breathed out what sounded like a curse in Russian. 

“The pins in my hair?” she said huskily. 

With shaking hands, Severus pulled one pin after another from her soft curls until they fell down her back in a shining wave of copper. He leaned forward and breathed in the scent of her shampoo. Hermione lifted her arms and wound them around Severus’s neck behind her, putting her almost-bare body on sensual display for the portrait in front of her. 

“Antonin,” she said as if trying to be seductive, but her voice broke. 

“Antonin,” she whispered in heartbreaking agony before dropping her arms and stepping forward. She clasped her hands together. “Please. Please don’t leave us.” 

“Darling girl, I am right here,” he said gently, “and you are stunning, dushen'ka. So bright and beautiful…and chained by a merciless curse. But tonight is Christmas Eve and you and Sevvy have been drinking. It is time for bed,” he insisted. “No tears, no worries. Comfort and quiet. Tomorrow, we shall spend the entire day together, just the three of us, I promise.”

Hermione sniffed and nodded. Severus summoned her camisole and gently pulled it over her head and down her body. They did their various toiletries together in the bathroom now, meeting each other’s eyes in the mirror with mouths full of Muggle toothpaste. 

And when they climbed into bed, Severus gathered Hermione close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Before he slipped into blissful sleep, he let his thoughts wander about the night. It had been…surprising. For the first time in a very long time, he had stepped into the crowd and found that it wasn’t so bad after all. He had danced with his princess, been propositioned by a handsome young professor, and finally realized that he was deeply in love with the woman of his dreams. He felt alive with it all. And so, Severus fell asleep with a full heart and a hand wrapped in curls. 

Chapter Text

He woke up when she screamed. 

“Severus!” came Antonin’s whip-crack voice. 

“I’m awake!” 

“She’s lost to the curse. You must bring her back before we do this. She must have her voice and her mind, Sev.” 

“How?”

“Kiss her, touch her, speak to her. Gently. Softly. Try everything.” 

Severus waved his arm and the twinkling lights flickered on, bathing the room in a soft glow. His witch was thrashing on the bed, moaning and teary. Her lashes fluttered over eyes that were rolling back in her head. She didn’t appear to be awake. 

“Fuck, I'm a fool,” cursed Antonin. “Sweet little dove, putting us before herself. Now she is so far gone…”

“Hermione,” murmured Severus. He reached over and ran his large palm down her arm. She cried out at his touch and shivered, tears slipping down her cheeks. He did the motion again. Slowly, carefully, as if painting her skin with his hands, he touched her. Down her leg, across her stomach, back up her arms. And under his tender ministrations, she calmed. 

“Very good, Severus,” said Antonin anxiously. “Keep going.” 

He leaned over and cupped her face, stroking his thumbs over her cheek bones. 

“Wake up, princess,” he said in a low voice. “We will take care of you.” 

With great effort, she lifted her heavy eyelids and he watched as she struggled to focus on his face. 

“S-severus?”

“I’m here.” 

“Antonin?” She sounded lost. Desperate. 

“Darling girl, we are here to give you everything you need.” 

“I’m burning,” she whimpered. “Purple flames…”  

“Severus, bathe her with your mouth.” 

He bent down and began kissing all the lines his hands had just traced over her. He trailed his mouth over her collarbone, down her ribs, over her hip. He kissed her trembling stomach, buried his face in the softness of her breasts and licked, licked , the delicate skin. 

“Darling, are you awake now?”

“Yes, Antonin,” she moaned. “Oh, yes.” 

“Would you like Severus to make you come?” 

“Please,” she begged. 

“Both of you, look at me,” he commanded and their heads snapped to the portrait. Hermione’s mouth dropped open and she panted as Antonin sat back on the settee, his throne , with his emerald eyes smoldering upon them. And god, that voice. As soon as the rich tone of his command washed over him, Severus’s cock rose to press against his underwear…the only item of clothing he wore in bed anymore.

“Tell me you consent,” he said, giving no quarter. “I need to hear you say it.” 

“Yes!” said Hermione again, almost shrieking. 

“Oh yes,” agreed Severus in a low tone. 

Antonin leaned forward. “Camisole off. Yes, help her Sevvy. Oh moya milaya, you are so beautiful. Now my love, on your back. Severus, next to her. Press your cock against her hip. I want you to slide those long, sensual fingers into her cunt and make her squirt all over your hand. 

“Yes, please,” she begged, tossing her head back. 

Severus delved his fingers into her slickness and quickly found her throbbing, swollen nub. As his fingers grazed over it, her hips bucked and rubbed against his aching cock. 

“Sevvy!”

“I’m here, princess. Does that feel good?” 

“More.” 

He increased pressure, swirling over her clit with single minded purpose. Make her come. Bring her up out of the curse and into their shared pleasure. 

“Such a good girl, moyo solntse, moi zvozdy. Your Prince is going to bring you relief, darling girl. You are safe. We will take care of you.” 

“Oh god, I’m going to—” 

She sucked in a whimpering breath, held it, her back arched, and then—

“Fuck, oh god, Sevvy. My Prince. Fuck, I’m coming. Antonin, my love, oh!” She keened and shook, drenching his hand in sweet slickness.

“Such beautiful words, my dove!” growled Antonin. “Look how they drive Sev wild?” 

She let out a long, shuddering breath and looked up at Severus as if truly seeing him for the first time. Her eyes were clear. Wide awake. Dark with unabashed arousal. 

“Hi,” he whispered. 

She searched his eyes. “I’m so glad it was you,” she whispered back and he knew that she wasn't just talking about this moment. “I want it to be you forever.” 

He touched his forehead to hers and breathed the scent of her. Forever. Forever. Forever. 

“Severus, underwear off.” 

He pulled away as if to take them off, but Hermione put her hand on his arm. 

“Let me,” she said, a question in her eyes that he answered with a desperate nod. And she pushed him until he lay flat on his back. 

“Ah, my little dove wants to care for her Prince. Show me how you worship him, darling.” 

She grasped the elastic of his boxer briefs and slowly began sliding them down. He lifted his hips and they both watched as his hard cock sprang free from confinement. Hermione didn’t even get his underwear all the way off before her mouth descended upon him. 

“Fucking hell,” he choked out. 

Antonin let out a dark chuckle from his throne. “Naughty minx.”

She swirled her tongue around the head of his cock and added her hand at the base, stroking as she sucked. 

It took no more than two minutes of the fucking bliss of her mouth before he was precariously close to the edge of his climax. 

“Princess,” he begged. 

“Darling, slide your mouth off of Sevvy. Yes, you may pout at me. He is about to come and I have plans for his cock that you will enjoy, dushen'ka.” 

Antonin looked down at them with glittering intensity. “Are you ready?” he asked in a voice like smoke. 

Severus nodded. 

“Yes,” breathed Hermione and she reached out and wrapped her hand around Severus’s thumb, stroking and caressing it with soft, sensual fingers. It made him wild, as if she was still fondling his cock, and he shuddered so fiercely, he thought he might die from not being deep inside her. He reached out with a trembling hand to cup her cheek. 

They paused. She looked at him and he looked at her. They touched without moving and everything went still. It was the eye of the storm. A breath of air before plunging into the waves. A moment of beautiful peace in the midst of the wild cadence of their bodies coming together to appease a vicious curse. The air grew fraught with magic and anticipation and deep, warm affection. 

Their joining would be momentous only in that they loved. With their hearts and souls, and now with their bodies. 

“Climb on top of your Prince, dushen'ka.” 

“Dushen'ka …” she murmured as she obeyed. 

“Soul of mine,” he rasped back at her and she shivered on top of Severus. He reached out to grip her hips. 

“Tighter,” she moaned, and he increased pressure, digging his fingers into her bones. 

“Don’t let go,” she whimpered. Never.  

“My beauties. My perfect, sensual darlings. Do not be afraid.” 

How could he fear something that felt so good and so right? How could he be afraid when Antonin was there with his firm voice and gentle words guiding them through pain and pleasure? How could he fear an unknown future when everything he never could imagine wanting was right here and right now. 

“First, your lips meet.” Oh, his velvet voice pulsing through them like music, like poetry. 

Hermione let out a breathless whimper as she crashed into his mouth. Their kiss was frenzied, desperate, as if she wanted to consume him and he wanted to fucking let her. He ached for her. Ached for an answer to a question he had yet to fathom. 

“Darling girl, slowly slide your perfect little cunt back and forth on Sevvy’s cock while you kiss. Ah, yes, good girl. How does that feel?”

“So good,” she moaned. “Antonin?”

“Tell me, moya milaya. 

“I am burning. I need…I need more.” 

“And you shall have it. Sevvy?” Antonin’s eyes were deep pools of power and hunger and pure fucking satisfaction. Gleaming emeralds that matched the crown they would soon place upon his head. 

“Please,” begged Severus. 

“My Hermione, reach down and grasp Sevvy’s perfect cock in your hand. Yes, it is dripping with you. Rub it through your folds. Does it feel good on your clit? Ah, yes. Beautiful, moya milaya. Slide it lower. Put it right at your entrance. Good. Now, my darling, you are in control, do you hear me?” 

“Yes, Antonin.” 

“Sink down on his cock, slowly, a bit at a time, until you are fully seated upon him. You will feel pressure, yes? Perhaps even some pain. Darling, remember, you have all the time in the world, understand?”

“Yes, Antonin.” 

“Sevvy, it will drive you mad but you must not snap your hips until our dove says she is ready. Obey, my dear Prince.”

“Yes, Antonin,” he ground out. His cock was so hard, it ached. The head of it was pressed against her tight cunt and, fuck, he felt like his heart was about to burst open. 

“Begin,” Antonin said in his deep, vibrating timbre and Severus’s cock jumped against the slick heat of his witch. 

“Oh!” she gasped and pressed herself down. Her pussy enveloped his head and, god, it felt like paradise. She kept going. 

“Beautiful, my darling. I can see the war of pain and pleasure on your face. Stop for a moment. Breathe.”

She obeyed, eyes on her King. 

“Princess,” Severus groaned. So hot, the core of her was burning. And so fucking tight. Her pussy was clamped around him and, fuck, the urge to thrust, to feel that magical friction of her tightness pulling at his hardness, it overwhelmed him. 

“Steady, Prince,” said Antonin sternly.  

“Yes, Antonin,” he said faintly and tried to relax. His king saw everything. He would keep them safe.

Hermione pressed down another inch and she let out a low hiss. 

“Breathe, darling dove.” 

Her breaths shuddered in and out of her. Severus loosened his grip on her hips and ran his warm palms up and down her sides until she relaxed. 

“I just need to—” and she swiftly pressed all the way down until his cock bottomed out within her cunt and her delectable arse sat upon his thighs. “Ahh!” she gasped and a wrinkle appeared between her eyes. 

“Pain, my love?” 

“Y-yes. A little.” 

“Wait for a moment. Adjust. Severus, keep painting your hands over her body.” 

“Yes, Antonin.” 

Severus did exactly that and watched pleasure replace the tension in her face. 

“Antonin?” she asked. 

“Yes, darling?” 

“I feel like…” 

“Like what?” he prompted in a deep growl. 

“Like I want to move.” She gave her hips an experimental roll and grasps wrenched out of both of them. 

“Oh, fuck,” whispered Severus. He lifted his hands back to her hips and dug his fingers into her. 

“You have me,” she said to him. “You will not let me go?” 

“Never,” he said. And he fucking meant it. 

“Yes, darling, move. Do what feels good and it will be the right thing, yes? You are perfect in your pleasure.” 

She ground down upon Severus and began rolling her hips. Her hands fisted into the pillows by his head to brace herself as she moved. He leaned up and captured her mouth in a frantic slide of tongues and lips. Fuck, it felt so good to be inside of her, to be gripped so tightly, warm and slippery and close, so close to her. He wanted to sink into her skin, fill his lungs with her breath, taste her lips on his tongue. He wanted to live inside her pleasure. 

“Severus, I need you,” she whined. 

“You may thrust, Severus. Gentle at first and rougher as our girl commands it, yes?”

He nodded frantically and gave a small thrust of his hips. 

“Oh, yes ,” moaned Hermione. “More.” 

Together, they began a delicate dance of movement that was a little unsteady, a little awkward, but they let pleasure lead the way and soon enough, they found a deep, intense rhythm that had Hermione keening as she rode him mercilessly. 

“My beauties, look at you.” His honey voice flowed over them. “Such perfect lovers. Severus, reach down and play with her clit.” 

He obeyed and she sucked in a whimpery gasp when his finger pressed against her swollen slickness. 

He thrust up, hard, and felt the rush of his climax surge closer…closer. “I’m…oh fuck, my witch, my princess.” 

“Come,” she gasped. “I want to watch your face before I fall apart in your arms.” 

“Fuck, Hermione,” said Antonin breathlessly. 

“I love it when you say my name,” she said huskily, flashing him a sex drunk smile. 

Severus squeezed his eyes shut, thrust up within his witch one last time, and roared to the ceiling as his entire body fractured into pure fucking ecstasy. He pounded her cunt like it was made for him and painted her insides with his come. Dimly, he remembered his finger was on her clit and he pressed, swirling faster and faster while she continued to grind against his still-hard length. 

He opened his eyes to a goddess above him, wild-haired and beautiful.

“I want…” 

he added pressure to her clit, merciless, determined,

“you” 

he reached the other hand up to her heaving breasts and ran a rough thumb over her nipple, rolling over the bud until she gasped, 

“to” 

he canted his hips against hers, grinding against the spot inside that made her scream,

“come!” he gasped, and grabbed her shoulder, steadying her as she sought her pleasure. 

“NOW,” commanded Antonin. 

She threw her head back and cried out as her cunt squeezed his cock in tight, wild pulses.

“Antonin,” she gasped, “yes! Fuck, Sevvy, oh god…” She shivered with the aftershocks and when she collapsed, Severus caught her in his strong arms and held her against his body. They were still joined, still connected, and every now and then she would twitch and gush a little bit more, making him shiver in return. 

Antonin began murmuring in Russian, soft and rumbling, almost a song but not quite and it soothed them until they were two hearts beating as one while their King wrapped them in his love and comfort.  

*****

“Merry Christmas, my darlings.” 

“Happy Christmas, Antonin.” Severus was surprised to find he really meant it. 

“We have a surprise for you,” said Hermione with a twinkling smile. She was radiant. Fresh-faced and glowing with health and happiness. Thank Merlin they had appeased the curse so well last night. The memory of her screaming in pain would haunt him for a while longer. 

She turned to Severus. “Ready?”

He nodded and summoned the scrap of canvas with the crown painted upon it. It gleamed and spun, Hermione’s magic already giving it life. The inlaid emeralds caught the lights of the Christmas tree and glittered. Glittered just like a certain pair of eyes…

“What’s this, my little tricksters? You conspired together?” His bright green eyes widened when he saw what they had made for him. “A crown for your king? Sevvy, you painted this? Oh! Oh I love it with all of my heart.” 

“Just wait,” said Hermione, laughing. She shot Severus an “I told you so” look and they both crowded around his frame. 

“Levitate it,” she ordered Severus and he flushed at her command. 

Carefully prodding the crown towards Antonin’s portrait, he finally situated it a hair’s breadth from touching the paint, near the bottom. If they were successful, Antonin would be able to pick the crown up off the floor and put it on. 

“Epoximise,” said Hermione firmly and intricately wove the magic until it shone forth from her wand and wrapped itself around the canvas of the crown. Slowly, as if moving through glass, the crown sank into Antonin’s portrait until it was one with the paint. The man himself was frozen, watching the process with an awestruck expression on his face. They all three gasped when the crown audibly clanged to the floor of the painting. 

The sound spurred Antonin into action and he strode forward, bent down, and wrapped his fingers around it. He lifted the crown and examined it reverently. He began murmuring in Russian, turning it this way and that with obvious delight. 

Hermione looked at Severus with tears in her eyes. Her lips were trembling as she gave him a wide grin. He held out his arms and she slid into his embrace, turning so her back was flush against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and imagined a lifetime of holding her like this. 

Antonin finally placed the crown atop his head with trembling fingers and looked down at them with tears streaming into his close-cropped beard. 

“It is ridiculous and beautiful and perfect, my dearest loves. I adore it. But even more than the crown itself, my Prince and princess, I am overjoyed at the thought and care you put into this gift. Sevvy, you painted for me. I am so proud of you. Hermione, your magic is a work of art. I have never seen someone with such an affinity for delicate wandwork. You should be a Spell Weaver, my love. An innovator. Both of you fill my heart with love and pride. To the brim!” 

Hermione was weeping by the end of his speech. Severus could feel her tears dripping against his arms and his tears, well, his fell into her sweet-smelling hair. Hermione tugged him forward to help her kiss the damp paint of Antonin’s cheek and Severus himself kissed the other. The paint tingled into his lips as if he now had a tiny piece of Antonin to carry in his heart for the rest of his life. The almighty curse of his portrait was the greatest gift Severus could have ever imagined. 

They all three stood there, weeping and smiling, until Hermione laughed through her tears and said, “This is ridiculous!” 

She pulled out of Severus’s arms and went over to her satchel. 

“I have a gift for you, my Sev.” And from within, she produced a sketchbook, bound in leather with his name pressed upon it. ‘Artworks of Severus Prince’ it read. She also pulled out a brand new set of art pencils. 

“There are new paints, watercolors, canvases, and yes, a damn easel somewhere in here, when you are ready.” 

His eyes were still glued to the beautiful sketchbook. He ran his hand down the soft leather cover. Hermione came closer. 

“I enchanted it so you will never run out of paper,” she said softly. “Do you like it?” 

In response, Severus carefully laid the sketchbook down on the side table by the sofa and then swept his thoughtful, perfect witch up into his arms. He pressed kisses to her cheeks, her lips, her neck. 

“Oh my sweet loves,” murmured Antonin from the wall. 

Severus wanted to say it then, desperately, but he had made a vow to wait until after the curse was broken, and damn if he didn’t keep all his promises. So instead of whispering the three words in his heart, he showed her. He showed her in his deep, sensual kisses, in the span of his large, warm palms gripped around her waist, in the lick of his tongue down her chest…her stomach…further…until he worshiped her, all on his own, until she gripped his hair and shouted her pleasure. 

“Beautiful, my doves. Severus, you were perfect.” 

And he glowed with Antonin’s praise. 

A while later, snuggled on the couch in front of a roaring fire with King Antonin reigning from his settee, Severus took a deep breath and spoke. 

“I…I have a gift for you, my princess,” he said, cursing his shaking voice. He summoned his old robes and she watched with curiosity as he found the hem and carefully extracted the razor blade hidden within. He slid his free hand around her wrist, prompting her to flatten her hand nestled within his. He tipped the small blade into her open palm and blinked away tears as he looked at it sitting innocuously against her skin. 

“Severus,” she whispered. 

He cleared his throat. “I have an appointment with a mind healer next week,” he told her. “You and Antonin…you pulled me out of the darkness. And now that I’ve felt the warmth of your light, there’s no place I’d rather be.” 

“Oh, my Sev,” she said again with tears pouring down her face. 

“I know our fate is uncertain and that is okay. I just wanted you to know that I am committed to healing, no matter what happens after the curse is broken. And I know that it will be hard and that there will be setbacks, but you both reminded me that there are things worth fighting for. Care, family, happiness.” He blinked away his tears and looked down at the familiar blade one last time.  

He swirled his wand. “Avifors.”

Hermione smiled down at the tiny metal dove now sitting in her palm. Severus took a delicate silver chain from the pocket of his joggers and carefully threaded it through the small loop at the top of the dove. A necklace. Without speaking, she turned and he placed it upon her neck and did up the clasp. 

“I love it,” she said with a trembling smile. 

A weight lifted from Severus’s shoulders as he looked at the little dove nestled between her breasts. A symbol of peace after all that pain. He let out a long, shuddering breath. He could tell he was in flux, finally turning away from the ghosts of his past and reaching towards future that was still hazy but so fucking bright, it made his eyes hurt. 

“Thank you, my Sev,” she said, wiping her eyes. 

“You are free, my Prince,” said Antonin solemnly. “And I am so very proud of you.”

Chapter Text

It was snowing lightly on Boxing Day morning, and with Antonin’s prompting, they went for a walk. “Go get some fresh air, my little elves,” he had said after feeding them a full English for breakfast. “Dress warmly.” 

Once outside, Severus offered to charm them both to keep the snow from landing upon them, but Hermione declined.  

“I like to feel the flakes on ‘my nose and eyelashes,’ she sang with a smile. He shrugged at the reference but looked at her with soft eyes as she threw her head back, closed her eyes, and let the snow sparkle upon her face. What a pretty picture she made against the white expanse of the swiftly falling snow. Rosy-cheeked and bundled up in a warm wool cloak, red and gold striped scarf around her neck, and a matching hat stuffed over her curls, complete with a yarn pom-pom bursting from the top. She slid her arm through his and they strolled through the grounds pressed together. He did insist on a warming charm, for which she smiled gratefully. 

When they reached the cliffs overlooking the Black Lake—calm today—they stopped and stood, looking out over the water. 

“I had an idea about what to do after I take my N.E.W.T.s,” she said softly. 

“Did you?” He kept his voice calm despite the anxiety spiking through him. A job that would surely take her away from him. She was young and bright with the world laid out before her in all its endless possibilities. 

“You joked that Antonin would just tell me what to do. You were right.” 

Severus forced himself to keep breathing, slow and steady, despite his pounding heart. Please don’t go, please don’t leave me, he thought over and over.

Aloud, he said, “I was right? Impossible,” with an ironic twist of his lips. 

She huffed a laugh and gave him a little bump on the arm. “I want to be a Spell Weaver. I want to invent new spells and improve upon the ones we already use. Make them more efficient. Maybe I’ll even write a book. Antonin said I had an affinity for precise and detailed magic.” It was almost a question. 

He couldn’t help the surge of pride that erupted from his chest and prompted him to pull her into his arms for a hug and a joyful spin in the softly-falling snow. 

“Yes,” he whispered into her hair. “Your magic has always been special, my brilliant witch.” 

She squeezed him tightly and then turned in his embrace and faced the water once more, her back against his front. She clutched his arms that were wrapped around her middle as they looked out at the water. 

“You could’ve fooled me, you know,” she said lightly. “All those times you called me an insufferable know-it-all under your breath—and to my face.” 

He sighed. Fuck, he had been a miserable, anxious ball of darkness and despair back then. And recently. Always, actually. Years of living a nightmare had turned him into a nightmare. 

“I am sorry, Hermione,” he said with strange formality. “For all the times I belittled you…took points for your brilliance…made you feel inadequate. I was a monster.” 

To his surprise, she snuggled further into his warmth. “I forgive you, my Sev,” she said simply. As if that was that. There was no question. No hesitation. 

“How do you do that?” 

“Do what?”

He glared at the water. “Forgive.”

She was silent for a long moment. He could feel her chest rising and falling under his arms. Her thoughtfulness was a difference he had noticed and he wasn't sure if he mourned how she used to be, with that beautiful hand flying up to answer every question as fast as she could, or if he appreciated how she now considered every answer so carefully. The gentle waves of the lake lapped at the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. The snow fell around them like a curtain, soft and quiet. 

“I forgive you because…I know your heart, Severus. I know your soul. It is bruised and scarred, just like mine. Just like all of ours who survived this war. Forgiving you is the same as forgiving myself.” 

He shook his head with vehement denial. “But what I did to you—the hurt and pain I’ve caused—” 

“Stop.” She turned and put her gloved fingers to his lips—lips that belonged to her now, for no other but she would ever touch them again. 

“The only way to save my own heart, to keep it from breaking in two, is to forgive you.” She tilted her head. “I forgive you in the same way I forgave Harry for putting me on the front lines of the war. The same way I forgave Ron for abandoning us in the forest when we were desperate and starving. Because if I didn't, I would burn up inside. I would lose two friends that I love.” She gave him one of her half shrugs. “So you see, I am being selfish. I want to heal. I want to love . Forgiveness is the only way.”

He tightened his arms and buried his hot face into her hair. 

“I trust you, my Sev. My heart is yours and it is safe in your keeping. I can manage the bumps and the little hurts of our future, because that’s life and we won’t be perfect. But I have no doubt, not a single one, that you will protect it always.” 

Agony and ecstasy. “You speak as if…” He hesitated, fearful of pushing a conversation that they were still not ready to have. 

She finished his sentence with a kiss, as if she couldn’t bear to be parted from his lips for one second longer. And when she was done, he was warm from the tip of his muddled head down to his booted toes. 

*****

When they returned to their room with chattering teeth and snow in their boots, Antonin frowned and sent them straight into a hot bath to warm up. 

“There are many spells to keep the snow from sticking to your clothing,” he grumbled disapprovingly. “My beauties look like little drowned rats.” 

“I like feeling the snowflakes fall on my cheeks,” Hermione shot back from the bathroom as she pulled her soaked jumper over her head and dropped it on the floor with a wet thwack. 

“Do you also like pneumonia, my dove?” 

“You can’t get pneumonia just from a little snow, Antonin!” She turned to Severus and rolled her eyes. “So dramatic,” she mouthed at him and shucked off her jeans.  

His cheeks heated and he tried not to gape at her naked form. Would it ever not bring him to his knees? 

“Why do my loves always insist on such recklessness?” lamented Antonin from the main room. 

“Antonin?” called Hermione. 

“Yes, my naughty, snow-covered minx?” 

“Can I sit on Sev’s cock in the bath?” She turned and winked at Severus, who had momentarily stopped breathing as he sat on the underwater bench in the giant bathtub. 

There was only silence for a moment. 

“I knew that would shut him up,” she whispered conspiratorially. 

Severus let out a choking sound. 

“You think you are being clever, little witch,” called Antonin, “but I would like nothing more than for you two to warm up. So yes, make love in the water. I want to hear your cries and screams of pleasure echoing off the tiles.” 

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. 

“He called your bluff,” murmured Severus, proud that he managed to remember how to speak, considering there currently wasn’t much blood going to his brain. 

She waded into the water and didn’t stop until she was standing between his open legs. “I wasn’t bluffing,” she said in a low voice. Then she climbed onto the bench and straddled him on her knees. Carefully, she lowered herself into his lap. 

He tilted his head back and looked up at her with what he was sure was fucking wide-open adoration. When her eyes met his, they were dark and burning with want. She slid warm, wet hands up his arms to his shoulders and dug her fingers into his neck. 

“Unh,” he groaned loudly. He heard Antonin hum with delight from the other room. 

“So tense, my Prince,” murmured Hermione. 

“Always.” 

“I suppose I will have to find ways of relaxing you,” she said with a smile. She was always smiling now and it made his heart whole to see it.  

“This is perfect.” His eyes closed. Heat bloomed across his body from the water and the touch of his witch. And for a while, he simply lost himself in the care, the gentleness, the relief of putting his wretched self entirely in the hands of someone else. 

Slowly, he became aware of another sensation. A wet slide over his hard cock…back and forth. The hands on his neck stuttered a bit. He opened his eyes. Her lashes were fluttering as she languidly rolled her hips over his length. Rosy cheeks, damp curls, freckles like cinnamon scattered across her nose. 

“You are beautiful.” 

She opened her eyes and looked down at him. The princess who ruled the heart of a Prince. 

“So are you, my Sev,” 

Her praise lit up the darkness in his soul and it shone as brightly as Antonin’s crown. He leaned forward and brushed his lips across the top of her breast. 

“What do you say we put on a show for our King?” he whispered into her mouth before claiming her lips and tongue for his own. 

“Yes,” she gasped, pulling away only when air became necessary. 

They helped each other out of the bath, dripping and hazy with arousal. Severus’s cock thrust out from his groin like an arrow pointed straight towards—

“What’s this?” Antonin’s voice was soft, deep, an ocean that Sev would gladly toss himself into and float away on the endless tide. 

Hermione grabbed a thick blanket from the couch on their way and threw it down on the floor right in front of the glowing fireplace, embers casting liquid flames against the stone floor. She lowered down to her knees and looked up at Antonin with so much love, so much aching need, that Sev wanted to whisper, ‘yes…yes!’ for he too felt everything, everything, that was written so plainly on her face. 

“Ah, my beauties cannot resist the call of their King. Get down on all fours, my lioness,” directed Antonin and he placed his glittering crown upon his head. 

She stretched out like a cat, slow and sensual, curving her back like a bow before settling her hips with a naughty little wiggle. Severus licked his lips and waited, looking up at Antonin with bated breath. 

“Kneel behind your princess,” he growled at Severus. 

Oh god. Oh fuck. He knelt. He would kiss her feet and worship the ground she walked on if Antonin so commanded. With fucking pleasure. 

“Hands on her arse and squeeze, my Sev.” 

It was fucking perfect. A ripe peach in the grip of his hands, soft and plump and begging for his mouth. 

“Yes, Sev,” she moaned, turning to look at him with dark eyes over her shoulder. “Harder.” 

He dug his fingers into her flesh and groaned. His cock dripped precum onto her arsecheek and they both whimpered. Severus reached out and ran his palm from the top of her spine all the way down to the start of her crease. 

“Keep going,” said Antonin from his throne. 

And he did. Oh fuck, he did, laving his fingers down her crease, past her tight pucker and into her dripping folds. He delved inside. God, the new angle was fucking delicious and he found the pleasure spot begging for his touch within her cunt. He fucking tortured it with undulating fingers. 

“Sev, please,” she begged. 

“Tell him what you want, princess.” 

“I want to come!” she shrieked. 

“You want to squirt all over his hand and then you want him to fuck you until you scream your pleasure to your King.” 

“Yes, yes, yes!” she chanted with heaving breasts. Severus continued to plunge his long fingers into her depths and grind into her cunt. 

“Severus, find her clit with your other hand.” 

“Yes, Antonin,” he said in a deep growl that he hardly recognized. His vision had narrowed to the writhing goddess before him and the King upon his wall. He pushed closer, his cock thrust out below her cunt, and he reached his free hand around her hip to find her clit. 

She cried out as soon as his fingers grazed over the sensitive nub. Electricity pumped through his veins at the power he held to make his princess keen and sob from his hands. The hands of an artist, he thought wildly. The hands of a lover. This is what they were made for…not knives or razor blades or spells that cut, but wringing pleasure from a curly haired witch who had pulled him from the hell of his past and shown him what it was to love. 

“You are mine,” he hissed, pumping ruthlessly into her cunt with one hand as he slid his fingers across her clit over and over again. 

Antonin gave a dark chuckle from the wall. “No, moy prints, you both belong to me,” he sneered. “My beauties, my doves, mine. And you will never forget it.” 

And oh, yes, Severus nodded frantically. “Yours,” he gasped. “Forever.” How desperately he wanted to belong to someone…to fit into a place he could call home. 

“Antonin!” wailed Hermione and she looked over her shoulder, eyes rolling back. 

Severus fingered her clit with more pressure and she arched her back like a crescent moon. 

“It’s coming,” she said, almost fearfully. 

“We’ve got you, princess,” said Antonin, low and intense. 

She threw her head back and screamed as she fucking gushed come all over his hands. Oh, sweet, beautiful slickness. 

“Use it,” growled Antonin. “Spread it over your cock, Prince. Stroke yourself while our Princess catches her breath.” 

And she did, gasping, quivering, she tried to find her way back to equilibrium. Severus laid his hand gently upon her lower back and smoothed circles into her damp skin while his other hand painted his cock in her sweet-smelling come. 

“Ohh,” he groaned at the smooth slide of his hand. It felt so good. So right. The smell of her belonged on his skin, sweet and musky, and mixed with his own dripping arousal. Theirs . His and hers. He never wanted to wash it off. There was no shame in pleasure, nothing dirty about his touch or his desire. It was simply part of loving, part of caring for the other half of his soul. 

“Princess, your Prince is going to take you from behind.” Antonin brought his hand to his lips, caressed them like a connoisseur. A connoisseur of the pleasure he was commanding below his portrait. 

“Please, Antonin,” she sobbed, her delectable arse swaying in the air. “Fill me up, my Sev.” 

“Yes,” growled Antonin. “Now.”

Fuck, he was aching with the need to be buried within her. Severus grabbed her hips, notched himself at her entrance, and plunged himself into her depths. She arched her back and let out a heart-stopping cry. 

“Grind your perfect cock into her, my Prince, and take her over the edge once more.” 

“Yes, Antonin.” With fucking pleasure. He wanted her shaking, shivering, and clenching around his cock until she was mindless. And he would lose himself with her knowing that Antonin was there to bring them back. 

He pulled almost all the way out and thrust in again. 

“Fuck,” she breathed and tossed her curls. 

He did it again. 

“Sev,” she moaned. 

“Princess, you are perfect,” he gasped and began a pulsing rhythm that had them both gasping and moaning. 

And all the while, the King murmured dark praise and beautiful Russian endearments that washed over Sev like the waves he so loved by the sea. Glittering, endless, beautiful. 

“I love you, Antonin,” he choked out. 

“Oh, my beautiful Prince, ya lyublyu tyebya fsyei dushoj. You are worthy and special and deserving of every good thing. Every good thing, Sevvy.” 

Oh. Oh, fuck! 

“Severus,” sobbed his witch, practically incoherent. “Please!” 

He pounded into her and somehow managed to wind his hand around her body to find her clit and take her screaming over the edge once more. His eyes rolled back when her cunt tightened and then released into wild spasms around him and he thrust once more and fucking exploded into a burst of light right along with her. It felt endless, timeless, as he poured himself into her, shouting his pleasure with wild abandon. And there was Antonin, glowing with triumph and pride as he looked down upon them. 

“Severus, she is yours, your Princess, and Hermione, he is yours, your Prince. You must hold on when you get love…and let go when you give it, my beautiful doves.” 

*****

“A symphony, my loves,” Antonin sighed with twinkling eyes after they had recovered. “It was nice to hear such delightful cries of pleasure from you, moy prints.” 

Severus blushed. Hermione gave him a knowing little smile and he fucking blushed harder.  

“You two are going to kill me,” he muttered and ran his fingers through his long, damp hair. 

“As long as you die your little deaths in my arms,” said Hermione softly. She tightened the belt of her robe. He knew she wore nothing else under it and his well-sated cock still gave an interested little throb. His eyes found the delicate metal dove resting in her delectable cleavage. For a moment he wondered if it was the sex that was the addiction, but quickly realized, no, it was her. 

“So poetic, my princess,” said Antonin. “Now, eat your lunch, my beauties, you need it. And then it’s time to talk of many things.” 

“‘Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax? Of cabbages and kings?’” quipped Hermione. 

“Enough with the poetry,” muttered Severus. His heart was filled to bursting and he wasn't sure how much more he could take. 

“Antonin likes it,” she said primly. 

“That’s because I am a romantic, moya milaya,” said Antonin, putting his hand over his heart and gazing wistfully into the distance. “Most storybook Kings are, you know.” 

Severus rolled his eyes. 

“Are you not a romantic, my Sev?” asked Hermione with twinkling eyes. 

He lunged at her and lifted her into his arms. She let out an adorable little shriek of surprise.

“Only for you, my princess,” he said huskily and kissed her deeply. She wound her arms around his neck and tugged her fingers through his hair. 

When they broke apart, she let out a soft sigh and he touched his forehead to hers. “Only for you,” he repeated. Slowly, he lowered her feet to the ground in a decadent slide of their bodies. 

“Merlin,” she whispered and a grin pulled at his lips. 

They ate lunch. 

“Antonin, what is your favorite memory?” asked Hermione, chewing her sandwich. 

“Oh, darling girl.” He thought for a moment. “I have lived many lifetimes. Son, husband, father. Portrait.” He flashed them an emerald grin. “My favorite memories are of the mundane, little dove. Taking my son to shop for groceries in our little village. Flying together on moonlit nights over the snowy countryside of my home. Making love to my wife in the furs of our bed.” His smile grew sad. 

“What happened to them?” asked Hermione in a quiet voice. 

“My second life was that of a grieving father. A widower, they called me.” His forehead wrinkled and his eyes grew shadowed. “That is why it was so easy for him to recruit me. I was burning with yarost', with fury, for what happened to my family. I wanted revenge.” 

Severus clenched his hands under the table. It was not a secret, what happened to Antonin’s family. They were attacked. Burned to death in their home by Fiendfyre. An Auror from the Ministry of Magic had come to question Antonin about magical violence occurring in a nearby village. Antonin, ever the paranoid practitioner, had set multiple defenses around his house while he was away for business. The Auror fought back against the various protective curses…and instead of retreating, as was protocol, he resorted to deadly, uncontrollable fire. 

“All that was left of my beautiful family was ash,” said Antonin in a gravelly voice. He wiped away a tear. “I spent my next lifetime a prisoner to my wrath.” 

“Do you regret it?” whispered Hermione. Severus watched their exchange with a pounding heart. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant. 

“Yes,” he said simply and caressed her face with green velvet eyes. “Oh my darling, yes. I was never meant to use my magic for such violence. But I did. And this current lifetime is my atonement.” 

Severus glared down at his plate. Atonement. Antonin meant his own demise…his end as a portrait. He would heal them both and, in doing so, disappear into nothingness. Did a portrait even die? No. It just…ceased to exist. An empty canvas once more. And for some reason, that made Severus angry. 

“Stay,” he said, not daring to look up. 

“Severus.” 

“It’s the least you could fucking do!” 

“Sweet Prince. Even if I stayed, it would not be enough.” 

Tears blurred his vision. 

“All I have now are love and regrets, dear Sevvy.” 

Severus blinked away the tears. 

“So this is it,” he said through clenched teeth. Hermione reached across the table and took his hand. 

“Yes,” said Antonin with deep conviction. He smiled sadly. “Move to the sofa, my doves.”

Hermione stood, never letting go of Severus’s hand, and together they walked to the old sofa, their comfort through so many storms… 

“You’re scaring me, Antonin,” said Hermione, curling up against Severus’s side on the large sofa. “What do you mean, this is it?”

He put his arm around her shoulders and their clasped hands came to rest in the blanket that she spread across their laps. 

“It is time to end the curse,” said Antonin in a deep rumble. 

Hermione sat straighter. “I have some ideas. There is a book in the restricted section that talks about curses that sound a bit like yours. The authors listed some promising counter-curses. Shall I go get it?”

Antonin let out a sigh. “No, moya milaya.” 

Severus’s stomach clenched. He knew it was fruitless and yet—

“There’s a book in my office I haven't had a chance to consult,” Severus said quickly. “Potions to Counter Curses. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll summon it.”

“No, dear Prince.” 

“Antonin—” started Hermione. 

“My brilliant doves,” he interrupted. “How I love your efforts to change the inevitable. But there is only one way to end the curse. ” 

“What way?” asked Severus with a pounding heart. He knew what was coming. He had known for a while, but a thread of hope had lingered. It had been strange to feel hope after so much despair, but he couldn't shake it. He had hoped so fervently, against all odds, that Antonin might stay. That he and Hermione might be able to keep their incorrigible, devious, beautiful King. But alas. Heartbreak always seemed to follow him around like a shadow, sucking all the air and light from his life. 

“You must siphon the magic of the paint from my portrait and, in so doing, destroy the painting,” he said solemnly. “Then, you will take up your brush, Sevvy, and you will paint our Princess with every last drop. Only then will the curse be broken.” 

Severus bowed his head and clenched his fist over Hermione’s shoulder. Losing Antonin…it was so predictable, it almost made him want to laugh. He lost everyone he loved. They never stayed. Hermione was the cursed one? What a joke. He had been cursed into a lifetime of loneliness, of desperate, pathetic sadness to which there was no fucking cure. No paint, no magic, nothing. Here he had found care and family and happiness. Of course it would be ripped away. Of course—

“Sevvy,” said Antonin in his deep voice. Achingly familiar. Warm and filled with mischief. 

“Please.” It was all he could choke out in response. 

“There must be some other way,” insisted Hermione, ever the stubborn witch. “I don’t accept it, Antonin. I am so sick of death!” 

“This is not a death, little witch,” said Antonin gently. “Your life is precious to me, my love. You cannot continue in this way.” Love shone from his eyes like a beacon. 

Hermione let out a harsh breath under its beam. Then another. Then she was sobbing. She buried her head into Severus’s chest and cried her fucking heart out. It was ugly and violent. She beat into his chest and he took it, looking up at Antonin as if a wound had opened up in his heart and was bleeding onto the floor. Antonin did not look away. He did not cower. No, ever the King, he absorbed the fury of his charges. The denial, desperation, the sickening refusal to accept what he suggested: the death of his portrait. 

Hermione lifted her head. “Afterwards…what will we do?” she hissed, angrily wiping away her tears. “How will we—” Her words twisted off in a whimper of agony. 

“You are ready to take control, my loves. You don’t need me anymore…not really. You have each other, which is everything I ever wanted. Look at your hands…holding on so tightly.” 

“And you’re letting go,” accused Hermione. “We love you. This isn’t fair!” 

Severus sat and felt the strings of his heart pull taut. One was connected to the witch beside him, glowing like a star. The other was connected to the portrait on the wall and it was shredding, fucking splintering, and it hurt, goddammit. 

“You placed yourselves in my care because you needed me. Cursed. Lonely, Aching for love. I brought you together to save you both, but you get to decide your future. It is a command I cannot give. It belongs to you, my doves.” 

“I choose not to break the curse. What is the point?” snapped Hermione. “I want Sev and I’m bonded to him. I want to keep you, Antonin. There. It’s decided.” 

“No,” said Antonin with finality. “The curse is too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Just last night, you were lost to it. Darling girl, you deserve to be in possession of yourself at all times. Not under the influence of the purple flames I inflicted upon you.” 

Severus nodded slowly, remembering her screams the night of the banquet. “You must be free,” he agreed in a low voice. “I cannot…I will not…Princess, please.” 

Her eyes darted back and forth between them before pain and heartbreak ripped across her face and she broke. Severus gathered up her shattered pieces and held her once more as she sobbed her fury, sadness, and heartbreak into his equally fractured chest. 

“I love you, little witch, dushen'ka,” murmured Antonin. “I love you, moy prints. You have each other. You are not alone.” It was as if he was trying to reassure himself as much as he was comforting them. 

After a while, Severus watched in wonder as Hermione pulled herself back together, plucking the broken pieces of herself that had begun floating away and fitting them carefully back into their rightful spot. She sat up, took Severus’s hand into her own once more, and dried her eyes on her bathrobe sleeve. 

“So how do we do it?” she asked, not meeting Antonin’s emerald gaze. Still so furious, he could feel it seething within her, but she was so fucking strong. 

“You need my magic to douse the purple flames of the curse. And now, because of your brilliance with the crown, we know the magic is within the paint.” 

“You painted your own portrait?” asked Severus with surprise. 

Antonin huffed a humorless laugh. “Yes, Sevvy. I did some Horcrux experimentation on magical portraits for Voldemort. It didn’t work out, as you know, but I did learn to paint quite well. There is no way to separate the magic from the paint, but there is a spell to siphon the paint from the canvas.” 

“Reglutino epoximise,” whispered Hermione, her face pale. 

“Yes.” 

“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Severus. Tenuous hope warred within him. Hope that it wouldn’t work…and hope that it would. 

His voice was confident. “It will.” 

Hermione drew in a pained breath. “And then what do we do?” 

Antonin turned warm green eyes upon her. “Severus will lay you down upon the table and use you as his canvas, my love. He will paint my magic upon you and when he is finished, you will be free.” 

Her exhale was harsh. “No,” she whimpered softly. 

“Yes.” Antonin closed his eyes and smiled. “I can see it now and you look so beautiful. Sevvy with a brush in his hand…you, covered in swirls of golden paint.” He opened his eyes. They were soft, softer than they had ever been. “Afterwards, you will make love until the hurt has mellowed and you will allow yourselves a single day to mourn the loss of your portrait.” 

“And after that?” It was practically a sob. 

“That is up to you, my girl. The world is yours.” 

Severus squeezed her hand. 

‘I’m here,’ he said with his fingers, his touch. ‘I will follow you across the world and you will never be alone,’ sang his heart. 

*****

As complex as it sounded, the execution of the spell turned out to be quite simple. Severus held an enchanted crystal goblet that would hold the paint without tainting it with any other magic nor would it stick to the sides of the glass. It was something he used for specific potion ingredients that were required to stay pure and untouched by magic and particulates alike. 

Antonin stood quietly, crown in hand, and watched them work with misty eyes. 

Hermione did the complicated wand work of siphoning the paint from the canvas into the goblet. Her face was hard the entire time, utterly expressionless, until all that was left on the canvas was Antonin. Then, she cracked. 

“I can’t do this,” she gasped and clutched her chest. 

Severus was there, immediately, wrapping his arms around her. 

“You can,” said Antonin in a low voice. “You are the strongest witch I know. The most powerful magician. You can do this, my love.”

“It’s going to destroy me, Antonin. It’s murder! I can’t…” Her chest heaved. 

“No, moya milaya! No, no, no,” he murmured. “It is my sacrifice. My penance for the harm I did to you and I gladly pay the price. This is not death. I disappeared long ago.” He tried to step closer but there was no paint to do so. Hermione let out a choked sound. “Milaya, don’t you see? You are saving yourself. It is what I wish.”

“I…oh god, Antonin!” 

Severus buried his head into her hair and for a moment, he longed for his blade. The pain of losing Antonin, both his own pain and hers, overwhelmed him. But no. Antonin had taught him he was brave…he was stronger than the urge to cut. He wanted to heal, dammit. 

“Hermione,” Antonin said gently. “It will feel like heaven for your beautiful magic to take me from this plane. Do it. I command it, darling Princess.” Emerald met velvet brown and a tear welled and dropped down her cinnamon-dusted cheek. 

“I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you.” 

He bowed his head and Severus watched as two drops of paint ran down the almost-empty canvas. 

“Antonin…” 

He looked up at Severus and a knowing smile crossed his face. “Goodbye, Sevvy. You are the best of them, yes? The bravest. You have waited a long time for this. Let go of the past and hold on to the future you so deserve.” 

Severus nodded, his chest stuttering, and he slid his hand along the underside of Hermione’s raised arm. 

“Reglutino epoximise,” she said with heartbroken finality. The last thing to fade from the canvas was the vibrant green of his eyes. As soon as the last drop of paint swirled into the crystal goblet and the portrait stood bare, blank, empty, she collapsed. 

Severus caught her with one arm. He carefully set the cup aside. Then, he bent down and lifted her into his arms while she sobbed and he…ached. Occlusion reached for him with soft, shadowy hands, but he pushed them away. His witch needed him here and now. He sat on the sofa and cuddled her close, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, her jawline. 

Eventually, her tears slowed and her breaths evened out. “I’m ready,” she said, wiping her swollen eyes. 

“Are you sure?” he asked in a low voice and used his mouth to kiss away a few of the remaining teardrops on her cheeks. 

“No.” She gave him a half shrug. “But I always follow his commands.” 

He helped her undress, carefully undoing the belt of her robe and gently pulling each arm from its warm sleeve. A flick of his wand had the fireplace roaring. She stood on wobbly legs and he swept her into his arms and carried her like a bride to the bare table. He laid her down and she watched him with huge, brown eyes as he gently arranged her arms down by her sides and parted her legs just so. Severus took up his paintbrush. Never in his life had he seen such a beautiful canvas. 

Experimentally, he ran the dry paintbrush down her hand and index finger. She shivered. 

“You are beautiful,” he said roughly. 

“Paint me like the ocean, my Sev,” she whispered, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “I want to float away with you.” 

He took the enchanted goblet into his hand and they both gasped when they saw the paint shining from within the crystal. It had utterly transformed from the dull brown mix of paint. Now, it was golden, shimmering with light and warmth, like liquid sunshine. 

“His magic is beautiful,” she said softly. 

“Like yours. Are you ready?”

This time she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. 

He dipped the soft bristles of the brush into the shimmering golden paint and leaned over his witch. With painstaking care, he painted a line of gold down the center of her deep, angry scar. She moaned. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked, worried.

“It feels…good,” she said in wonder and sadness. “It’s gentle…and cool, like a breeze coming off the sea.” 

Relieved, Severus dipped the brush into the paint once more and drew another line down her scar. She closed her eyes. 

“Keep going, my Sev,” she murmured. 

He lost himself in the artwork of her body. He painted her scar. Every last flame of mangled flesh upon her chest, he filled with golden light. And he did not stop there. Over her breasts, he drew swirls of shimmering paint, waves of gold down her arms, and bright shining stars over her stomach. He covered her in love and sunshine until she glowed, bright and beautiful. 

Time stood suspended as he painted so he was surprised when he looked down to find a single drop of gold left hovering in the enchanted cup. He took his brush and swirled the final spark of Antonin Dolohov into the bristles. A sacrifice of love and care…of atonement. ‘I came for you’ he had told Severus. ‘I wanted to give you everything…’

“Severus,” Hermione whispered with tears in her eyes. 

“He saved me,” said Severus in a shaking voice. He turned his tear-stained eyes to her. “And now he’s going to save you.” He took the brush, wet with the last drop of paint, and carefully drew it upon her lips like a kiss. 

She closed her eyes and tears slipped down her cheeks. The paint hovered for a moment upon her body, golden and bright, a princess shrouded in light, until, all at once, it sank into her skin. She gasped, her back arched, and poisonous purple flames erupted from her scar. Severus fell back, paintbrush clattering to the floor. She screamed. Screamed. Oh god, he crawled towards her, reaching, hand outstretched, and as soon as his fingers brushed against her hand, the flames doused in a rush of blistering heat and the tether binding him to her snapped. He cringed and clutched his chest. Fuck, it hurt. 

Her body crashed down upon the table and her eyes rolled back in her head. With a shaky exhale, she went limp. Still.  

“No,” he whispered, and wrenched himself to his feet. “Hermione.” 

Lifeless. No. Fucking hell, no! It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Antonin was supposed to save her! The paint would save her. This wasn't supposed to happen! His hands were on her face, her chest, where was her heart beat? Where was her pulse? He was supposed to save her! I can’t do this again, he thought wildly. I won’t do this! 

And she was still. 

“No!” Knives slipped into his throat and his heart cracked. He had failed to protect his mother. Now he had failed to protect Hermione, his love, the one person who had truly seen him. 

“Hermione!” 

He shoved his hands under her body and heaved her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and sat heavily, cradling her close, head bowed. 

“Don’t leave me, my princess,” he whispered brokenly. “I love you.” 

His tears rained down upon her chest and stomach. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t lose them both. The world could not continue to be so cruel. 

He closed his eyes and the shadows saw his pain and smiled gleefully. It would take them no time to swoop back into the deep, dark places of his shattered heart and take up residence. He bowed his head and braced himself for the onslaught. 

*

*

*

“Severus?” 

A whisper. Did he dream it? 

“Sev?” 

His eyes flew open and his head snapped up. A breath. His hands fluttered anxiously over her body and landed on her chest, fingers pressed against her heart. Her strongly-beating heart. He released the desperate cry that had been choking his throat and twisted on the bed, burying his face into her neck. 

“Severus,” she said again, stronger. Brighter. “I told you…” 

Her hand groped for his and when she found his fingers clutched into her hip, she pried them off and held them tightly. 

“I told you I would not let go.” 

*****

Somewhere, in the span of hazy time that they held each other in bed, his lips found hers and he lost himself in her taste. Lazily, he traveled down her neck and ran his nose over the delicate chain of her necklace. Her pulse fluttered against his cheek. The tips of his fingers found her nipples and gently teased them into tight buds. Sounds reach his ears. Whimpery sighs, soft moans, gasps of pleasure. His tongue took the place of his fingers and he couldn't get enough. A gush of salty sweetness elicited from a deep suck sent a rush of heat straight to his cock. She cried out and he did it again. Her hips lifted off the bed and crashed down. 

“Touch yourself,” he murmured faintly, continuing his journey downward. Shaking hands slid past his dark hair that was strewn across the softness of her stomach. He watched delicate fingers hesitantly dip into her own slippery heat. 

“Oh!”

Surprise and pleasure and deep relief within one little exhale. He reached her hipbone and swirled his tongue over it, imagining the tingle in his mouth was Antonin’s golden magic lingering upon her skin. He kissed his way down her thigh and settled himself between them, breathing her sweet scent and tasting her skin. 

After a while, he felt a tug in his hair. A plea. Carefully, he pulled himself over her. She raised her knees and soft hands pressed against his burning cheeks. 

“Severus.” 

He fell into her depths, happily drowning, finding home within her slippery tightness, waves of pleasure and crashing salt water rushed over their entwined bodies. They cried and made love and held each other close. 

*****

When he woke up, she was gone. Panic flared, as bright and red as blood. He ran his hands frantically over the warmth of her side of the bed. A lone candle flickered by her bedside table. 

“Hermione?” He meant to shout her name, meant for it to echo across the room, but it came out as a whisper. 

No answer. Nothing. Instinctually, his eyes searched for the comfort of the portrait on the wall. He found only emptiness. Oh god, he thought wildly. The bond is broken and she has left me. The pain made him gasp. He twisted the sheets in his clawed fists and squeezed his eyes shut. 

Breathe. 

Severus heard Antonin’s voice in his mind. 

Breathe, Sevvy. 

He sucked in air and it burned like fumes down his throat. 

Again. 

He forced himself to slow down. The air was cleaner this time and his hands unclenched. 

She left. She left him. But…why? He blinked at the dark window. It was early, before sunrise. He looked over at the bare table. The table where he had laid her down and painted her with Antonin’s golden magic. What if…what if the curse broke and she realized she didn’t want to be with a sad, pathetic man twenty years her senior? What if she realized the nightmare she had been living was exactly that—a nightmare? He wanted to sink into his pain. To Occlude away and find a new blade to—wait. Wait!  ‘The bravest of us,’ Antonin had called him. No more bleeding for his pain. No more seeking out the darkness because he thought he deserved to be shrouded in shadows. Antonin’s love had been golden light and Hermione had promised she would never let go. 

Just wait, he told himself. He curled up into a ball and clasped his hands together in front of him. ‘Hold on when you get love…’ 

He didn’t know how long he lay there, breathing through the swirling chaos of his mind, but when she blew in the door in a tornado of levitated clothes and toiletries and more fucking joggers, he sat up so fast, the room spun. 

“Oh! You’re awake, my Sev.” She gave him a radiant smile. 

He tried. He tried so fucking hard. But as soon as he saw the love in her big brown eyes, the glowing warmth of her smile, he imploded. He buried his face into the pillow and let go. 

Within moments, she was crawling on top of his back, pressing her entire body against his. “I left a note, Sevvy,” she said, and the nickname made his chest stutter painfully. He choked on sobs that threatened to shred his throat. He heard the crinkle of parchment. 

“‘I haven’t left, my Sev. I went to get the rest of my things because this is my home and I can’t bear to be parted from you. It’s five in the morning. I’ll be back in an hour and if I’m not, come get me,’” she read in a soft voice. 

He lifted his hot, damp face from the pillow. She reached over and smoothed his long hair from his sticky cheek. 

“Do you think we can hide it from McGonagall?” she asked with a twinkle. 

He let out a relieved huff of laughter that was almost a sob. “No,” he gasped out. “But maybe she’ll look the other way?” 

Hermione’s smile washed the whole room in golden light. She wrapped her arms around him. 

“I love you,” she said and buried her kiss into his neck. 

“I love you too.” 

It was quiet for a moment. Peaceful. He both loved and hated it. 

“Sev?”

“Hm?” 

“How the hell do we request breakfast from the elves to show up on that blasted table?” 

His chuckle echoed across the room, joined by her own tinkling laugh. 

And across far distances of space and time, Severus thought he saw a flash of emerald. But perhaps it was only the golden sunrise reflecting off of the forest. 

Chapter Text

June

Severus cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Minerva.”

“Of course, Severus.” She frowned at him as if he was dense. “What kind of headmistress would I be if I didn't meet with my staff…and my old friend, hm?” Her eyes assessed him shrewdly over her spectacles. 

“I…well, there are a few things I wish to discuss with you.” 

She threaded her fingers together on the desk and leaned forward. 

“Go on, dear boy.” 

“I've been…seeing a mind healer. Down in the village. Well, a little outside the village.” 

“Healer Jacobs?” 

Severus frowned. “How did you–” 

“Saw him myself for a few months at the start of term.” 

Severus was taken aback. Minerva had always been…formidable. Unflappable! And even she needed the help of a mind healer? 

“It is a very brave thing, Severus, though it shouldn't be. It should be considered common care. I am very proud of you, in any event. You seem quite transformed.” 

“Yes. I am much happier,” he admitted, staring down at his lap. “Which brings me to the other thing.” His heart pounded. He thought of Hermione’s reassuring words that morning at breakfast. ‘If she tells you to leave, we’ll move to the South of France. I've always loved the sea.’

“I’m…” He hesitated, blinked, and sucked in a deep breath. “I'm in a relationship with Hermione Granger,” he said quickly. “We were bonded by a curse—Antonin Dolohov’s curse. It took some doing but we countered the spell earlier this year. Now we're just bonded by love. I love her. Desperately. We’ve been living together.” Stop talking, Severus, he admonished himself as his ears flamed. He dared to look up at her. 

Minerva stared at him then let out a deep sigh. “I know. I’ve been trying to think about what to do.” 

His brain short-circuited. She knew? 

“H-How do you know?” 

“Antonin. He hinted that this might happen without so many words. Incorrigible, that man.” Her lips twitched. 

“So you liked him too,” he said slowly as realization dawned. He almost smiled. Everything always came back to Antonin. Severus was glad they had kept the old canvas and gilded frame, even after it had come unstuck from the castle stones. Hermione had agreed—they would keep it forever, never to be painted on again. 

Minerva cleared her throat and glared at him. “I was glad to have him gone from my wall. However, the occasional visit was somewhat acceptable.” She sat back and adjusted her quill in the inkpot. “Anyway, he revealed bits and pieces of what was going on in the hopes that I would go easy on you both. He wanted to give me time to ‘consider my response,’ he said.” 

“And have you made a decision?” 

“Yes, I'm afraid.” 

She winced and his heart leapt. 

“And?” 

*****

He strode back into their room, navy robes billowing. 

Hermione snapped her head up from the desk in the far corner where she had been writing furiously. Did his witch ever write at a leisurely pace? He hoped to find out one day. 

“Tell me.” 

“She sacked me.” 

A slow smile began to stretch across Hermione’s face. 

“And?” 

“And she wished us well on our journey to the sea.” 

It was a full-blown grin now, shining as brightly as the sun, and he found himself smiling right back. Fuck, she was beautiful. 

“She did ask that we keep in touch and that you send her a first edition of your book of spells when you publish it. She seemed to think the future students of Hogwarts might need to consult it from time to time. You know, considering it will be written by one of the few graduates to ever achieve a full sweep of Outstandings on all her N.E.W.T.s.”  

Hermione stood and raced into Severus’s open arms. Her kiss made his knees weak. Fucking hell. He needed to build his strength. Perhaps an exercise routine that involved walks in the sand by the crashing waves might not be so bad. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly when they broke apart. She twisted the strands of his now shoulder length hair around her fingers. 

"Yes?” he drawled. 

“Remember how Antonin said he lived many different lifetimes?” 

His heart gave a painful throb. “Yes.” 

“Our lifetime at Hogwarts is over,” she said with a wistful smile. He waited, studying her deep brown eyes while she came to terms with another ending, another moment of uncertainty stretching ahead, another new start. They had choices to make. Was she frightened? Was she sorry to go? His heart did not pound nor did he feel that tell-tale spike of anxiety. He waited, knowing that whatever she said, he would be okay. It was easier now, to trust her and to trust himself. 

“I’m ready for the next lifetime and all the rest after that, my love. I can’t wait to move away and have a new adventure.” She cupped his cheek and looked straight into his eyes. “Do you know why?”

“Why?” he asked breathlessly. 

“Because I will be with you for all of them.” 

This time, his knees did give out and they sank to the floor as they covered each other in soft kisses and gentle touches. And a while later, when she cried out and clenched around him as he spilled hotly within her, their fingers were entwined, squeezing so tightly, nothing could have pried them apart. 

Hold on when you get love…

Two years later, they got married on the beach with Minerva and Freddie and a few other friends they had made in their little French village as witnesses. Hermione’s book was coming along nicely, although Severus was frequently used as a guinea pig for her experimental spells. After the most recent one, she had luckily been able to remove the tattoo, but he shuddered every time he thought of his week with a bright purple dragon twisting around his neck. Eventually, his brilliant wife got her newly invented spell right and now his inner left forearm was smooth and bare. 

Severus spent most of his time corresponding through Owl post, having opened the lines of communication with some well-known Potioneers around the world. He was surprised at how enthusiastically they responded and soon enough, they were sending him drafts of papers to edit and new Potions recipes for him to look over and review. Twice a month, he activated his International Portkey and traveled to Healer Jacobs’ office. Although last month, Jacobs had smiled at Severus and suggested that they could reduce their visits to just once a month, considering Severus’s progress. 

Progress made through sweat, tears, and paint . He poured all of his fury, grief, and pain into his art. At first, his paintings were dark and disturbing. A delicate wrist covered in bruises, a pair of slitted, red eyes that glared at the viewer, a basilisk lunging forward, open-mouthed, with venomous death dripping from its fangs. None of them were magical, however, just regular paint on canvas. Now, two years later, the scenes he painted shone with light and love. He painted the ocean at sunrise, he painted the little piper birds that ran across the sand, and he painted her. Wild curls and twinkling brown eyes. Cinnamon-dusted cheeks and hands splattered in ink. Much later, he would paint those hands resting on her beautiful swollen belly as she stood in a white dress that looked like fairy wings with the ocean breeze tugging at her hair. 

And sometimes, he would paint him…though, he could never get the green of his eyes quite right. 

There were days when Hermione would look up at Severus with tears in her eyes. “Please,” she would whisper desperately. And he would come to her, drop to his knees, and lift her shirt to press warm kisses along the fading silver scar between her breasts, just below where a small metal dove hung from her neck. This little scene happened quite often. They did it whenever they missed their emerald-eyed King. 

Their life together was everything that Severus would never have dared to imagine without the meddling of a beautiful, devious portrait who, through love and care, taught him how to dream again. 

…and let go when you give it.

Far away, where the earth meets the horizon on a frigid strip of land, stood a cabin with smoke trailing from its stone chimney. Within, a wizard with a salt-and-pepper beard and sharp green eyes hummed a little tune as he squeezed a blob of oil paint onto a well-used palette. When he set down the tube on the table, his hand brushed against the golden crown that sat amid the clutter of paintbrushes and old bits of canvas. An easel stood before him with a half-finished self-portrait propped upon it. The large, gray husky curled up on the floor by his feet sighed and buried her nose in her paws. 

“You miss them, sweet girl? I do too,” he said in a deep voice and reached down to scratch her ears. He looked over to a gilded frame on the wall of his workroom. To anyone else, the canvas appeared to be blank, dingy and gray, but to him, it was beautiful. The mirrored enchantment upon it was broken, lost when his Prince painted their little dove in gold and ended the curse, but sometimes, on nights when magic fell from the stars or burst forth from the glittering moon upon the frozen expanse of his home, the canvas would come alive once more and give him just a glimpse of his beauties. He would hear her laugh and his shy chuckle…a gasp and a sigh of pleasure…a flash of wild curls or a sensitive hand holding a paintbrush. They must have kept the old canvas, he surmised. Their painting was a testament to courage and Antonin was satisfied. 

“They are free,” he said softly. “But our work continues, milaya sobaka. We must make right all the wrongs we committed during our lifetime of wrath.” 

Then, he glanced down at the small bit of parchment that had arrived via Hogwarts owl. Written upon it, in Minerva’s confident script, was a suggestion for his next portrait delivery. 

Merlin once said ‘no matter how far you have traveled into the dark, you can always turn back to the light.' I believe he was speaking about more than just magic, she wrote. You are not beyond redemption, Mr. Dolohov. Carry on.

“Love and care and peace. That is what we will offer,” he murmured to the dog. She raised her head and let out a mournful whine. He lifted his wand and infused the next stroke of paint with his unique and powerful magic. The new portrait would be ready soon and their little cabin would be busy with purpose once more.

Outside, the snowy expanse glittered under the moonlight and the Northern Lights danced and shimmered high above the cabin in streaks of emerald green. 

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