Author's Note: Sorry not, not sorry. I had the idea of a lovely possessive Hermione and out this came when I should have been sleeping. Thank you to q-drew and toblass for cheering me on and enabling me!

Hermione pulled her shirt off, her hair fluffing with static. She tossed it aside and tried ineffectually to pat it down. When it refused, she dug an elastic out of her bag and wrangled it into a messy braid. She'd just gotten the end wrapped when the compartment door moved.

She slammed one hand out to stop it, the other covering the scarring on her arm, panicked. "Occupied! Er—changing!"

"No worries!" the friendly voice replied. "I'll find another one!"

Hermione only relaxed as footsteps faded away. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten to lock the compartment. She did so now, with a solid-sounding click. She looked down at her arm, ashamed of her reaction. Honestly, with the entire summer to...adjust, she had thought she'd be better. After all, she'd gotten used to the curved silvery scar between her breasts after the Ministry.

Blinking back frustration, Hermione grabbed her wand off the seat and held it over her arm. She watched as the livid red letters faded from view, as the thin pink line below them also disappeared under the glamour. Feeling moderately more secure, she dressed. Shirt. Tights. Skirt. Sweater. Robe. With each layer she felt safer. Like she was burying the scars along with the war.

Her reflection in the glass showed a perfectly-normal looking eighth-year student.

The Sorting had been more subdued than she remembered it, the entering class size small. Mostly Wizarding family names. Not for the first time, she wondered if she shouldn't have just sat her NEWTs with Ron and Harry.

Food appeared on the serving platters as McGonagall finished her speech and Hermione blinked. She hadn't meant for her thoughts to wander. She hadn't even caught the new professors' names! Making casual small talk with her Housemates gave her some answers, and she looked over the Head Table.

McGonagall was continuing on to teach the higher grade Transfiguration classes, and the young man to the left of Flitwick, Clagget, would be teaching through the fourth years. A pretty young girl named Henderson was the new Muggle Studies professor, and DADA was being taught by a middle-aged witch named Markham. At the far end of the table by the staff doors, looking dour as ever, was Professor Snape. She wondered why he had come back, and why he'd remained in Potions, and if his classes would be less tense now.

She'd find out the last in the morning, at least.

The Feast was delicious, though the roast was too well-done for her liking. The Yorkshire was perfect, the chicken flavourful, and the puddings plentiful. Too soon, the prefects were gathering up their train-weary, over-full charges, and they all headed off to their dormitories.

Gryffindor Tower was quieter than she remembered. Then again, the new eighth-year dorm was smaller, with privacy screens between the beds after curfew. It was a nice touch, but definitely muffled the usual sleep-sounds of her roommates.

Hermione turned over again. She missed Crooks. She missed Ginny. She missed Harry. Heck, she even missed Ron, as strained as things were since she'd broken it off with him. It was strange to be at Hogwarts without the boys, strange and lonely, but she wanted to do her best for her NEWTs.

She closed her eyes.

Opened them.

She was restless. She felt perfectly awake, but knew better than to prowl the halls or risk a visit to the library.

She closed her eyes.

The Dungeons were as cold and familiar as she had remembered it. Hermione nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Professor Snape's classroom was back; she hadn't liked how Slughorn had changed things. The vials of ingredients in spidery script were in their proper place in the store room. There were no strange brews awaiting them. No chortling presence. The blackboard by his desk was clean, no doubt the recipe already lurking there, unless he was going to lecture on their first day back.

In fact, the Potions Master was conspicuously absent. It made her smile: no, this was not going to change.

The eighth years took their desks, books, parchment, and quills ready. They knew better than to murmur, to look around, to ask where Snape was.

No sooner had they all fallen silent, expectant, than did the classroom door open. It lacked his usual bang!, but he swept through the room with the same commanding stride he always had. Hermione sat up straighter. There was something...different about him. She couldn't pinpoint what it was, something elusive, that made her heartbeat quicken.

He faced the class, robe flaring and settling behind him. The classroom door closed, slowly, with a resounding click.

She could have heard a Knut drop.

"You have returned to this school," he said, his voice caressing each word, "to complete your learning. I will tolerate nothing less than perfection in this classroom."

His eyes swept over each of them. They touched upon her and everything in her vibrated, pulled taut, but they left her face quickly, with no change to his expression.

"Potions are dangerous," he continued after his perusal of the class, growing stern even as a sneer curled his lips. "I only accept Outstanding students as a rule. Slughorn may have let a few of you slide."

If you cannot manage this class, you will leave and you will. Not. Return. Have I made myself clear?"

The class nodded in unison. He seemed to relax, marginally.

"Good. Then we shall begin with something simple." He flicked his hand at the board. "Put your books away, prepare your ingredients, and begin. I expect a sample by the end of class."

Hermione fell into a rhythm as the weeks passed. She had made friends with the seventh years, but found herself more of a source of fascination for the younger students that made her avoid them. She didn't speak as much in classes, and spent most of her time in the library where Madame Pince would be able to keep the other students from pestering her with questions.

She even managed to bury her newfound fascination with Snape after every class. She barely saw him except for dinners and classes. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen him in the hall.

But at night... her dreams were vague and unsettling in all the wrong ways that felt right.

"You're mad." Minerva looked up at him.

"Excuse me, young man?" The other professors nearly bolted for the staff room door.

"You. Have. Gone. Mad." he replied, enunciating clearly. "And deaf, apparently. A masquerade, Minerva?"

"It's good for the students, Severus. Haven't you noticed how subdued it is this year?"

He was quiet for a moment, pondering how to reply. He knew it was a far cry from normal, but it was a drastic improvement from last year. "I have noticed a lack of explosions in my classes, yes."

"Exactly." Minerva sighed, looking tired. "They are afraid of failure this year. They spend more time practising their movements before casting a spell. Papers are shorter—even Hermione Granger is turning in the required length and not over, for Merlin's sake! They need a night of anonymous freedom, even if it is under the guise of revelry."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, capitulating. "As you say. That may be... helpful. I had noticed that Granger seems quiet of late."

Minerva nodded. "It is to be expected, but she hasn't made many friends with the others, either."

He wasn't keen on digging more into Granger's psyche. It wouldn't do to have Minerva know that this year she'd caught his attention and he couldn't figure out why. Instead, he idly let his fingers drift over his neck.

"Oh, I shouldn't keep you," she said, as he'd expected. But her eyes softened. "How are they healing?"

"Slowly," he replied. "One last question, however...I am not expected to wear a mask or bring a date, I hope?"

Minerva chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it, Severus."

Hermione was in the common room when the news of the Valentines Masquerade swept the school. She looked up from her parchment, ink staining her fingers, at Padma and Parvati. "A...dance?"

"Yes!"

"It's going to be so wonderful!"

She made a face.

"Don't worry, Hermione," Padma said comfortingly. "You don't have to have a date."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, indignant.

"Well, since Ron's not here..."

"I'm not dating Ron, though."

"Oh? But we'd heard—"

"We broke up," Hermione told them. "It wasn't working."

Well, she wasn't working, really. She didn't feel that way for him at all, and it had been grating on her to fake it. And it hadn't been fair to Ron, either.

"Well, then you can go stag!"

"Or find a date," Parvati said with a giggle. "There's lots of boys who're interested, Hermione."

She smiled and turned back to her homework. "Maybe."

She meant 'never'. None of them interested her.

"At least we'll have the whole holiday break to find dresses and masks!" The twins giggled and Hermione just shook her head.

She wasn't going home for the holidays, not this year. She had studying to do. She'd just have to ask Ginny for her help.

Severus surveyed the Great Hall, trying not to drown in his coffee as his head drooped tiredly. He still wasn't sleeping properly. Nightmares, sometimes. A niggling feeling, sometimes, that he was supposed to be seeking someone out. Or something. He tried not to dwell on it and focus on simply getting through each day.

The Hall smelled strongly—too strongly, in his opinion—of pine. The fairy lights Flitwick had hung danced on the corners of his vision, reflected in the numerous baubles. Most of Slytherin had stayed for the holidays, and a handful more of other Houses had, as well.

Notably was Granger. He looked over the rim of his mug at her as he took another sip. She was bent over another book, her hair a bedraggled mess. She seemed more subdued this morning. Every month, like clockwork.

He frowned.

Every month?

He tapped his fingers along the gleaming table, calculating.

Yes, every month she flagged around the full moon.

His mouth drew into a grim line.

"I need to speak with you."

Hermione jumped, dropping her scrolls. One rolled towards the darkened doorway where he'd been waiting and he stopped it with one polished boot.

"Apologies, Miss Granger. Startling you was not my intention." Professor Snape bent and gathered her scrolls nearest him.

"It's alright, Professor. I was lost in thought is all." She rounded up her remaining papers and quills, jamming two of them into her hair. "Am...am I in trouble, sir?"

"That remains to be seen," he said. "Is this classroom satisfactory, or would you prefer my office?"

She shrugged. This close to him, she could smell his coffee and aftershave. Her stomach flipped and she chalked it up to worry. "Here is fine, sir. I'm headed to the library after."

"Very well." He swept inside and she followed, closing the door behind them. He stood in front of the desk, leaning against it, arms crossed in front of his chest. "I'm going to ask you a terribly impertinent question."

Hermione blinked and set her stack upon the closest desk. "Er...alright?"

"I have noticed that you seem to be lacking in energy once a month." She squawked and he held up a hand. "It seems tied to wane of the full moon. In your...travels..."

A polite way of putting it, she thought.

"...In your travels, were you bitten?"

She shook her head frantically. "No, sir. Scratched, yes, but it wasn't a full moon."

He relaxed. "I see."

Hermione flushed. "I talked to Bill about it—"

"Bill?"

"Weasley. He was bitten by Greyback."

"Ah. I recall as much." He gestured for her to continue.

She squirmed. She felt like crawling out of her skin, and blamed it on the topic. "The Snatchers had gotten us, and it was just...just one claw. I didn't realise that was why I was tired..."

His fingers clenched reflexively. "So you are not bitten or turned."

"No, sir." She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "Bill said there would probably be a few side-effects, like I really don't like roast anymore, it's over-cooked, but that I shouldn't have to worry. Has...has anyone else noticed?"

"No, Miss Granger. In fact, it has taken me this long to piece it together."

"I'm sorry if I worried you," she offered. He inclined his head, and she watched as his hair brushed along his jawline. "Er...was that all, sir?"

"Yes." He studied her movements, brisk and efficient as she gathered her things and left the room. It took a great deal of willpower not to follow, and he didn't know why.

Hermione replayed that small interaction over and over in her mind over the remainder of the break, trying to figure out what had her so tense. It wasn't his attitude—that was actually fairly standard for her when she was away from Harry—and while the topic had been uncomfortable, she could not in retrospect pinpoint why, just why, she had felt that way.

But then classes started again and she threw herself into her studying with fervour.

Severus turned over restlessly in his bed. That damn bloody Masque of Minerva's was tonight, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Another event to chaperone, to keep the little blighters from snogging and more. He didn't really see the harm in them exploring responsibly, and kept Poppy stocked with all the requisite potions, but for some reason given a party or Hogsmeade weekend and all good sense left them.

He flopped onto his back and stared blankly at the ceiling, glad he would not have to wear a mask. He had had enough of those for a lifetime.

...And why was he wondering who Granger was bringing?

All of their hair and makeup completed, Hermione waved the girls off as they headed down, and she surveyed her own dress and mask on her bed, hesitating. Ginny had been all too happy to shop for her, and Hermione wished she'd mentioned that she would have preferred to cover her arm.

But no.

Instead, the sweeping crushed velvet navy gown had little puffed sleeves and a square neckline that put her in mind of a regency gown left her scars exposed. Hermione bit her lip, then sighed, removing her robes. She layered three different glamours over her arm and chest, minimizing the telltale shimmer to nearly nothing.

Dress next, careful not to undo Padma's hard work on her hair.

Then the sleek mask. Hermione studied it. Plain black velvet with a hint of sparkle near the eyes. Putting it on actually helped, she thought. She wasn't Hermione anymore. She could be someone who danced til she was breathless, who didn't return to the dormitory til morning.

With a giggle she stowed her wand and headed down to the dance.

Severus was standing near the punch bowl, having shooed three different students away from spiking it, and avoiding the dance floor. He was watching students come in almost idly, and felt like he had been punched solidly in the stomach.

He—that couldn't be Granger.

There was something almost different and ethereal about her tonight. She seemed confident, and the full moon shining through the enchanted ceiling caught the sparkles on the corners of her mask. She was unescorted, he noticed, though she willingly accepted a dance and was swept away on the tide of the music.

She disappeared into a swirl of dresses and robes as the music pulsed and pounded in the Hall. He shook his head, feeling spellbound. What in Merlin's name was wrong with him?

"Are you alright, Professor?"

He glanced up to scowl. "As ever, Professor Markham."

"It's so nice of Minerva to throw a party," she pressed gently.

"Indeed."

The woman thought she could mother him and it grated. If he wanted mothering, he'd take tea with Poppy and Irma. Instead, she prattled on next to him.

Hermione was on her sixth partner, feeling elated, when she caught a glimpse of Professor Snape by the refreshments, his body language defensive as Professor Markham spoke to him. Her gaze went flat and sharp and she excused herself from her partner, working her way across the dizzying dance floor. That pulled-taut feeling was back.

Mine!

Markham placed a hand on Snape's arm and he shrugged it off. How dare she!

He heard the growl before he saw her, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Hello, Professors."

The sweetness in her voice was a lie. Her posture was one of someone ready to spring, her eyes trained on Markham. Her magic simmered below the surface and he couldn't put a name to how he felt.

"Oh, good evening, Miss Granger!" Professor Markham smiled in her motherly way. "Are you enjoying the dance? You seem a bit out of breath, perhaps some pumpkin juice?"

"No, thank you."

Severus was quite sure that Markham wasn't going to catch on to the very real probability that she was in danger. "Miss Granger, you seem flushed. Allow me to escort you out for some air."

"If you insist," she said, her eyes sliding away from the other professor. He took her arm.

"I do. Minerva would be displeased if her favourite cub ended up in the infirmary from overheating."

Hermione looked where his hand touched her elbow, feeling the warmth of his skin, transfixed by the simple contact.

She went with him docilely, but he wasn't fooled. Something had set her off tonight, and he intended to find out what. No one paid them any mind after his Notice Me Not charm and they slipped away into the maze of halls.

"Miss Granger—" He released her arm, and she tracked his hand as it left.

"Mine." The word was a growl. Her eyes were dark.

He blinked. "I beg your pardon."

Of all the possibilities, that was one he hadn't considered.

"She dared. To touch. What is mine." And she threw herself at him, her arms circling his neck and bringing him down so she could kiss his lips.

No, he definitely had not considered this.

His arms went around her involuntarily, but once he touched the soft material of her dress, he could not think of a reason to let go. Not when her lips, so warm and commanding, were pressed against his. He was helpless in her thrall, wanting nothing more than to let her—no, she's a student...

The voice of reason in his mind was bravely trying to keep his attention, but something far older and more instinctual was going to win, and he was going to let it.

Hermione was aghast at herself—she wasn't the possessive sort, not usually—and she certainly did not go around snogging professors! But this... this wasn't a professor. He was hers and damn the rules, damn propriety.

She mewled against his mouth—thin lips, warm, supple, not fighting her—and he sighed. His lips parting were a capitulation and a welcome and she took it.

His knees would have buckled if she hadn't knocked him against the wall when her tongue slid into his mouth. He hadn't been kissed like this in years, or at all, if he was honest. The raw need and passion in her kiss seemed to leap from her to him and he kissed her back, his hands moving from her back to cup her face.

With a soft gasp she pulled away, looking up at him in wonder and...something else. But then she pulled him down again, her hands burrowing into his hair, heedless of its texture. The faint day's stubble against her mouth as they snogged inflamed her, both of them breathless. Her hands fisted in his hair now, keeping him exactly where she wanted him. She could feel his nose resting against her check, feel the ragged moan she conjured in him being torn from deep within his chest.

I am going to hell, he thought, unable to stop himself. His hands smoothed down her bare shoulders, across the slickness of her dress to pull her closer. Her hands moved, her fingers plucking at the knot of his cravat. I am going to hell and I do not care.

"Mine," she murmured with her next breath, tossing his cravat aside. It fell into the shadows and lay forgotten. She yanked his collar open and he groaned as her mouth found the scarring on his throat. His cock surged to life in his trousers and he tipped his head to give her all of the access to his person that he could grant.

Hermione savoured his panting breaths, pressing herself between his legs until he was forced to open them. The hard length was a welcome knowledge, as was the way he bucked against her stomach and grasped her arse with firm hands.

On some level, she was fairly certain she shouldn't be doing any of this, and really should be asking a great many more questions.

And on every other level, this man, this wizard, this mate, was hers, and she was going to make damn well sure he knew it.

She rubbed against him like a cat and he pulled her tighter against the ever-lengthening bulge in his trousers. It was difficult to work her fingers against his shirt buttons, especially as she was determined not to relinquish his neck. A series of small bruises blossomed under her mouth, marking him.

Mine.

He hissed a word out into the dark quiet of the hall, the sound curling somewhere in her sternum, coiling tight.

"Yourssss," he'd said. "Oh, fuck—"

She nipped at his neck and he gasped. She finally opened his shirt and yanked it from his trousers rather unceremoniously, her fingers touching the crisp hair, feeling the faint raised lines of scars.

"Mine," she growled. He looked down at her, the harsh lines of his face lit by helpless pleasure, the row of love bites along his neck stark against his pale skin.

She was a tiny thing, pushing him against the wall and taking what she wanted, and, Merlin help him, he was powerless to refuse her. On one level, he knew this wasn't the right time or place. On the other... it certainly explained why he'd been drawn to her, what that nagging feeling was.

And if the universe was going to give him a pain in the ass know-it-all as a mate, he wasn't about to say no. He had had a resignation letter ready all semester, but really, they should talk about this...

"Yours," he agreed, his voice gravelly. He hadn't meant to answer, but couldn't resist the pull.

Her eyes fell shut, and when she opened them, he felt the full force of her gaze like a blow. Those honey and chocolate eyes looked at him like he was the world.

Fuck it. He could talk to her later.

"Mine." Her voice was so full of wonder and she stroked his cheek, cupping his face and he returned her gentle kiss. Hermione trembled against him, touching the silk of his shirt, the crisp hair, the smooth skin, the wool of his coat... She couldn't help herself. "My wizard. My mate."

He surrendered to her every touch, leaning into her like a starved man, keeping her within the cage of his arms. "Yours."

Raucous laughter came from the end of the hallway and his head snapped up, breaking the spell, and before she could blink he'd pulled them into a classroom, keeping her body in contact with his.

"What's happening?" Hermione managed to ask.

"I'm afraid it's one of the side-effects of your literal scratch from a werewolf," he said. She stepped away and he let her.

She studied him. He looked positively hedonistic, his coat and shirt ripped and hanging off his frame, his erection tenting his trousers, the scratches—had she done that?—along his lightly-furred chest, the bites along his neck...

"Am I—are you—" She bit her tongue, then squared her shoulders. "I don't want to stop, but I don't want to talk about it right now."

His lips curled into a smirk. "Nor do I, but perhaps a new venue?"

Her smile, suddenly predatory, gleamed in the faint light.

They stole through the halls like shadows, her hand clasped firmly in his. They came to a bare expanse of wall and he pulled her through it. Wards pushed around and against her but she emerged into what was clearly his sitting room. She would look later at the shelves of books he pulled her past, into the bedroom.

"No regrets?" he asked, standing face-to-face with her. The tiny voice that said he shouldn't be doing this, encouraging this, was silent.

"None." The hollow feeling she'd been carrying around for months was being filled; every breath, she inhaled the fragrance of his rooms, the scent on his skin. The tension that had been sitting heavily in her bones was gone. The very nearness of him, the certainty that this was right, that this wizard was hers, soothed her.

He lifted his free hand, whispering a spell to release her mask from her face.

"None," he echoed, and bent his head to kiss her.

The spark of passion that had been dampened by their escape through the school burst back into life, the instinct to claim roaring to the forefront.

She growled, low in her chest and pushed his coat and shirt off. They pooled at his feet and her hands worked at his belt. The clink of metal, the hiss of leather... He shuddered and sought the closure at the back of her dress. The zipper slid down easily and she freed her arms between kisses, pushing her dress off and kicking it away. Her shoes followed, and he hurried to do the same, toeing out of them.

When his trousers pooled around his ankles she pushed him back until he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, breaking their series of kisses.

Her gazed raked possessively down his body; clearly, she liked what she saw, her chest rising and falling, her teeth sinking into her lip. Never had he been looked at like that—with passion, with reverence. Like he was beautiful and desirable.

Then she smiled at him, her eyes full of wonder and something more.

Lips parting involuntarily as more blood rushed further south, Severus pulled her to him, kissing her deeply as his deft fingers undid her brassiere and she hurried out of it, throwing it behind her. She straddled his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress and bringing her cotton-covered sex in contact with his. His hips flexed, his hands running down her back, and she moaned into his mouth.

"You feel amazing," she whispered between kisses. Her hands travelled along the muscles in his arms, then to his chest. "I want more."

"Yes." His voice was a mere thread of sound.

"Severus," she murmured and he opened his eyes. They were dark, she saw, arousal she could very well feel proof of and she ground her hips into his to watch them fight to stay open. Her lips curled wickedly. God but she felt powerful! That this man would react to her so!

He held her gaze, her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks utterly entrancing. He let her push him down to the bed, let her weight settle atop him. Her breasts were warm and soft against the curve of his stomach as she kissed her way down his chest. Her nails ran along behind her mouth, even scraping against his sensitive nipples after she laved them.

Hermione's eyes met his as she slid down his stomach, her feet touching the soft rug covering the stone floor. She smiled and bent her head, eyes never leaving his, as she sucked the tip of his cock through the fabric of his pants. He swore, fighting to keep his narrow hips still and losing.

She laughed, sliding off the bed entirely and pulling his pants with her. She shimmied out of hers as well, tossing both aside and climbing back up his body before he could get a chance to touch her the way he wanted to. Hell, he hadn't even gotten a proper taste of her breasts, and promised himself to rectify that later.

Much later, if she had her way, he realised as she pushed against his shoulders and straddled him again, biting her lip as she rocked against his thick length. He held his breath, feeling the slickness of her against him. Hermione made delicious little noises as she rocked, and then her entrance caught on the tip of his cock.

"Mine," she said again, her tone ripe with victory, as she slid down his length.

It was like coming home—he fit nice and snug within her and she was so wet that he groaned, his head falling back against the mattress. His inky black hair spread around his head like a halo and she clenched herself around him, teeth sinking deeply into her bottom lip at the play of emotions on his face. Damn, but he felt good inside her.

She was so damn wet around him that he very nearly embarrassed himself.

Fuck, but she felt good. When was the last time he had felt so good? When had someone been so wet for him without aid?

Hermione let out a slow breath, tossing the escaping tendrils of hair from her face, and smiling down at him.

"You feel amazing," she murmured. She rose up, sank down, and he groaned, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. Hermione moaned in harmony with him, swivelling her hips and grinding herself on him.

He let go of the fisted bedding and reached for her hands. Their fingers interlocked and she grinned at the support as she started to ride him.

This was perfection, she thought, gliding up and down his cock, his fingers digging into her hands. He looked perfectly lovely—not handsome, no, but sexy and so very, very lovely and hers—a beneath her, letting her set the pace.

Maybe he was being a gentleman.

Maybe he liked it when she was in charge.

Hermione threw her head back and increased her tempo. She didn't care. All she cared was that he was helping her, canting his hips to help her, holding her weight so she could drop down and fuck him hard. Fire raced through her when she looked down and saw his teeth clenched, sweat beading along his forehead. She could hear every hissed breath as he was doing whatever he needed to make sure she was pleasured and she keened softly.

He was so, so perfect.

Her mate.

She was never, ever, ever, going to let anyone else touch him ever again.

Severus fought with every stroke to hold on, to stave off his orgasm, her litany touching him. He had never been so wanted. So needed. Carefully, he freed one hand, encouraging her to cup one of her beautiful breasts that bounced and jiggled with each upward thrust. She pinched her own nipple and he groaned again.

He drew a lazy line down her hip, watching the flush growing from her cheeks, to her neck, to her breasts, to her belly.

She was whispering pleas now, and he had no intention of denying his witch.

His fingers slid between them, gathering the wetness of her lovely quim that was growing tighter around his cock. She needed just a touch more. Even her mind was crying out and he couldn't help but catch the need and he splayed his hand now across her belly, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in small circles.

Hermione's eyes flew open and she looked at him with helpless devotion.

"Severus!" she cried. "Oh, yes, Severus!"

Never had he heard his name spoken like that and he was going to do whatever he could to do it again and again.

Her world shattered as she fought to find her breath again, her body clenching around the thick cock buried within her. She cried out, panting, as stars burst behind her eyes.

When she was able to look down at Severus, he looked wondrous, his expression and determined.

And he was still rock hard.

Barely had she time to process that thought when he rolled them so now she was the one on the edge of the bed and he stood, embedded firmly within her. His flexed his hands.

"I am yours," he told her, gripping the soft flesh of her hips tightly. Hermione writhed beneath him, panting, hoping she would bruise, mark her as she had marked him. Severus began to thrust in earnest and she cried out, wrapping her legs around his narrow, tapered waist.

Her breasts jiggled with each stroke and he loved it.

"I liked watching you when I rode you," she gasped out. "You looked...oh, god...you looked so sexy, Severus..."

"Say my name again," he grunted.

"Severus," Hermione crooned. "My Severus. No one else's. Not ever."

"Yessssss," and it came out as a hiss.

He was breathing hard, nostrils flaring. He wasn't going to bring her off, not again, he wanted her to see how she undid him.

Her nails raked down his back, the pain driving him. He was so, so close to completion now, and she watched in fascination as he threw his head back with abandon, cords on his neck standing out as he stopped, buried in her, shuddering.

She could feel him come within her, could see the tension in his belly and firm chest.

"Mine," Severus said. "I may be yours, but you are also mine, Hermione."

In the end, Hermione sat her NEWTs on time and passed all of them with Outstandings.

Severus resigned, and gladly, as it was going to be much easier to tryst with his witch without sneaking about the halls of the school.

They moved into her parents' old house and spent far too much time in bed before setting about finding proper employment and bickering over who left socks where.

No one dared critique their relationship to their faces, which was for the best, as they both were a bit possessive.