The front door clicks shut on the night behind her and she thinks that she's made it home free. She hangs her coat on the wrack, careful to brush the snow flakes off the fabric so it isn't stained with wet in the morning. She'd like to charm them away, but he keeps her wand locked in his room, and he really was supposed to destroy it anyway. That was part of the bargain he made, wasn't it? Slaves can't have wands, can they? It might make some aspects of their tasks easier, but really, when did anyone ever care about making work easier on a slave? But she has very few tasks. She is a special kind of slave. The girl kind. The kind with nothing much to do except be available. And even then…she has very few tasks.

She slips her shoes off and positions them neatly by the door. She'll have to be careful to maintain them. She rarely goes out with him, and he'll notice if the leather starts to wear. They are her only pair of shoes now, and she is silently grateful that they are sensible.

Her stocking feet slide silently across the dingy wood floor, which she would really like to clean. She tried once, and he got angry with her, although she can't for a moment imagine why since she wasn't saying anything about his house keeping skills (which are negligent at best) or his magical prowess, or anything other than the fact that the floors were dirty and needed cleaning. He didn't do anything to her. He just stared down at her, on her hands and needs, and said:

"I do not wish to be mocked in my own home."

And it made absolutely no sense to her, but she gathered up her pail and rags and got out of his sight as quickly as she could. It's a good rule of thumb for her now. Get out of his sight, as quickly as possible. She makes a beeline for the kitchen. She sleeps there most nights, on a cot by the hearth. It's warm there, and quiet. If the embers have not yet burned down, she reads sometimes by their faint light. She would never have had the nerve to ask him if she might borrow one of his books, and she was entirely thrown off guard when he nonchalantly offered his library to her one rainy afternoon a few weeks after he had acquired her. She had stared at him dumbly, certain she had misheard him. And then he was angry again, his jaw clenched and his eyes cold. He spat venomously at her: "Close that obscene, gaping little mouth of yours, Miss Granger and get out of my sight." She fled and avoided him scrupulously until he summoned her that night. She entered his chambers, downed the vial of dreamless sleep her had left her on the nightstand, and slipped into his bed. She was fast asleep before he came to her. When she woke, she was clutching the worn volume that he had slipped into her arms while she slept. She doesn't care over much for fiction, but she consoled herself with the fact that she'd always wanted to read Wuthering Heights, but never yet found the time.

She thought about reading it slowly, dolling out chapters sparingly to give herself something to look forward to. She had no idea when she would be permitted another text. But the process repeated the next week when he called her to his bed again. She prepared herself, she fell into sleep's embrace, woke cradling a book like a child's stuffed toy. She tries not to think about the bit in between.

She's half way across the main room now, almost to the worn pallet where she can collapse and sleep until morning's rays draw her from sleep. The floorboards creak under her feet and she freezes. She waits a beat, another, and continues. She steps across the threshold but his quiet, dangerous whisper cuts through the darkness, stopping her mid-stride: "Was it cold out tonight, Miss Granger?"

Her mind works furiously. She's created all sorts of excuses for this exact contingency. She's practiced them in her head until they sound reasonable and nonchalant. And now, they all leave her, stranded between the living room, and the kitchen, and the man staring out at her from the darkness.

"Yes, it's very cold."

Silence. She wishes he'd say something, so she'd know what he was thinking. But he doesn't and she can't make out his features in the pitch blackness. She knows she should stay quiet, but she can't help herself.

"I felt light-headed and I stepped outside for some air. Only for a minute. I'm sorry I woke you."

"You've been gone nearly two hours."

There is no answer now that he knows. Nothing she says will do her any good, so she shuts her mouth and remains standing in the doorframe. She hears a faint rustle, the clink of a glass being set down, and then nothing. He's on her so quick she startles. She recoils, feeling the doorjamb bite into her spine. But he still doesn't touch her. He's so careful about touching her. And then he leans in very close, his aquiline nose hovering just above the juncture where neck meets shoulder, breathing in deeply. She shudders as she feels his warm breath on her neck, at her ear, whispering: "I can smell him on you, Miss Granger. Did you think I wouldn't be able to tell?"

She tries not to whimper and she does an admirable job, but she is frightened.

"Who is it? The Weasley lad?"

She knows she should meet his gaze, utter a denial, but she can't.

"I have Veritas Serum in the next room, you know. I could make you tell me where he is. I have no doubt that the Dark Lord would be very glad indeed to get his hands on one of those despicable traitors to the blood."

"Please…"

It sounds like begging. She's not too proud to beg anymore.

"Please, what? For someone with such a grand reputation you're quite inarticulate Miss Granger."

"He was going to be my husband."

"I'm amazed he'd still deign to touch you, knowing that I've had you as well. That I can have you as often as I like."

"He loves me."

"Which means less than nothing. You are mine, Miss Granger. Every inch of you. From the top of your frizzy head to the soles of your treacherous little feet. Your arms, your lips, your inadequate breasts, your slick little cunny. All of it belongs to me."

She nods, because she knows it's true. It's not right. It's not fair. But it is true.

His long fingers slide across her face, and he grips her jaw between his thumb and forefinger.

"Perhaps I should give you to Malfoy. I suppose you'd even prefer me to him."

She doesn't answer and he gives her face a mocking little shake.

"Well?" He hisses at her.

It never goes like this in his head. There's never cruel words and steely silences. In his head, things always seem to come out so much better.

He says: "Everything is alright, Hermione. I will protect you. I will treat you well. You are safe here."

And she says: "Oh, Severus. Thank you! Thank you! You've saved me.

And he says: "Yes."

And she says: "I can never repay your kindness, but you will have my undying gratitude."

And she says: "Let me make you dinner."

And she says: "Let me clean your home and make it nice for you."

And she says: "I was cold and I thought perhaps I could sleep here with you."

And she says: "Touch me, Severus."

And she says: "I love you."

He bristles with self contempt, because he knows the insipid scene he imagines is absurd. He knows a woman's heart is never won. Not ever. It cannot be bought, even with something as grand as saving her from an unpleasant death at the hands of several lustful tormentors. It is only given. And it is never given to men like him. Not even when they try to do the right thing. Not even when they've earned it. And especially not when they want it.

So the words he wishes to say come out incorrectly. Instead of telling her that he'd like to brush her hair and stroke the smooth muscles of her calves, he says: "You'd be dead without me. Dead and worse than dead."

And he says: "Haven't I been kind to you?"

And he says: "I never try to kiss you."

And he says: "I only touch you out of necessity."

And he says: "Don't I let you sleep through it?"

And she says: "Severus..."

And he says: "Don't soil my given name with your filthy tongue, Mudblood."

And she says: "Your blood is every bit as muddy as mine."

And he cuffs her so hard across the mouth that she'll have an angry bruise on her face come morning.

He pulls back his hand, and gentles the tops of his knuckles with his finger tips. She'd see a twinge in his features, if she looked up. But she concentrates on her throbbing chin and keeps her eyes downcast.

"Clean the last traces of that boy off yourself, and come to my room."

He recedes into the darkness and she realizes she's been holding her breath. She expels it in a puff of air and slumps against the doorframe. She takes a moment to calm herself before stealing into the kitchen. She digs a bar of soap out from underneath the sink, splashes with cool water, and scrubs herself squeaky clean. The soap smells faintly of lavender. It's a nice bar of soap, one she's been saving. He brought it home for her about a month ago. He left it on her pallet in the kitchen. And he'd had the sales clerk wrap it in butcher paper and tie it with twine. She thinks it was in February. She thinks it must have been about the middle of the month. And she remembers laughing and crying quietly that night, because she thinks perhaps Severus had given it to her as a Valentine.

There's no need to cross the wooden floor quietly this time; he knows she's coming. But old habits die hard and she doesn't make a sound as she approaches his room. The door is open; it always is. The lamp is turned down very low; it always is. Hermione begins to shed her clothes as usual, but she hears him enter while she has the night gown over her head. She stiffens but doesn't stop. He has seen her nude many times, but she has never disrobed before him. She pretends it's the most normal thing in the world to strip naked while he watches. The bed creaks as he settles onto it. She grasps the edge of the nightstand to steady herself, fumbles without looking for the small vial of the viscous potion that steals away her consciousness and leaves her vulnerable to, but blissfully unaware of what he does to her oblivious flesh. The top of the nightstand is smooth. Vacant. She dares to turn and look and finds no trace of the elixir he always leaves for her. She glances vaguely in his direction and he clears his throat.

"I want you awake tonight."

She is in no position to refuse him anything, and she tries to climb into the bed beside him. She honestly does. But her feet stick to the floor, her limbs heavy and numb.

"Are you deaf, Miss Granger, or merely recalcitrant."

She looks him in the eye now, and her heart is racing. She must look close to panic because she sees him falter. Some of the anger in his eyes seems to dissipate. And something akin to self-loathing seems to color his expression. But he reaches out and circles her wrist with his hand. He pulls her forward – not violently, not roughly, but firmly none-the-less. Once his grip has leant her momentum, she scrambles up the bed and under the blankets. She hunkers down as low as she can get, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She tells herself that she'll just go to sleep. Like all the other times. It is late after all. Things won't be so bad.

She feels his weight shift on the age-worn mattress, his body sidling closer to hers. And he leans down to speak to her in hushed tones.

"Can't even bear to look at me, can you, Granger."

And it's the truth, but she doesn't want to say so. Because she never knows if agreeing with him is the right or wrong thing to do.

"Will you be able to pretend I'm him if you keep your eyes shut? Is that your plan?"

She doesn't trust her voice, but she manages to shake her head no. She tenses as she feels his long, spindly fingers splay over her left breast. He gives a tentative squeeze, presses her pert nipple between two fingers. It is unpleasant, but gentler than she expects. There is no pain. He pulls his hand away, and severs the connection. After a few moments, the absence of touch makes her uneasy and she opens her eyes. He is staring down at her intently. She is afraid to look away. She is surprised when he breaks the glance first.

His hand snakes along the outside of her leg, caressing her. She realizes, all of a sudden, that he is making a conscious effort to be gentle with her. The thought makes her uneasy, and she squeezes her legs shut.

"Don't play frigid with me, girl. Out rutting in the street with an old school chum at all hours of the night. You think I don't know every inch of you by now?"

His hand creeps to the soft inner flesh of her thigh, draws lazy circles across the sensitive skin. He slips between her legs, strokes the soft thatch with the tips of his fingers.

"Do you forget that I've squeezed your tits until they've bored me to tears, licked the hollows of your neck until I can't taste you any more?"

She grits her teeth as his index finger nudges the lips of her sex, grasping them to gently prise her open. His whole hand covers her then, his thumb pressing into her clit as his middle finger penetrates her.

"I've been inside you, Miss Granger."

He begins to press rhythmically into her, but not as insistently as she expects. In another time and place, she might have even thought it was pleasant. But not now. Not like this.

"I've been so deep in you that I thought I'd drown. I've stretched you wide as anyone you've ever loved. I've filled you to the brim and watched in rapture as you wept a hot salty river across my sheets."

His words unnerve her, but her body flushes in response to his ministrations. She wishes he would stop now, or relent and let her fall into sleep before he brings himself off. She'd like to just slip away unnoticed and let him sate himself on her unwilling flesh. His fingers continue to plumb her depths a moment more, and then recede. She sees him rise to his knees, and she turns her head away. He slips between her legs and nudges her knees apart with his own.

"Quit this prudish act, Miss Granger. I believe we've established that I know you and your softer parts very well by now."

He prepares to mount her, to plunge inside her, and she feels the tip of his cock brush against her thigh. She's not quite sure what gives her the courage to speak up, but she finds her voice at last.

"You don't know me at all."

She feels him grow rigid above her, his muscles tense. All except for one. He presses his manhood against her opening, but he has gone soft and limp. He rubs himself against the dampness there, but his organ doesn't stir. She hears him curse under his breath, and mutter an incantation at his drooping phallus.

His flesh springs to life, and presses insistently against her quim. She winces slightly, as he sheathes himself inside her, sore from her earlier encounter.

"Let's just say, Miss Granger, that I know all the parts of you that are worth knowing."

He moves atop her now, easing into a regular rhythm. His eyes look straight ahead, a thousand yard stare. And she waits for him to finish. It doesn't take long. She can feel him trembling, see the sweat start to bead along his hairline. She thinks of other things. Of books, and soap and the floor that needs cleaning. She hears him rasp out her name. Not the ubiquitous "Miss Granger" but her given name, and it startles her back into the moment. He looks down at her and their eyes meet. And he surprises her by pressing his lips gently to hers in a tender kiss. She can tell by his erratic movements that he is climaxing, and yet his kiss remains soft and warm. He kisses her just like Ron does. Realization crashes over her like the tide. He loves her. In his own horrid, selfish, misguided, hideous way. He loves her. And it makes everything so much worse. She chokes back a sob, and he lurches away from her. He reclines beside her on the bed, looking lost. She stops holding back, stops caring, and lets the loud, chocking sobs wrack her body. He recoils from this wailing female thing in his bed. This living, breathing, awake creature that thinks and reacts and feels.

In his mind he says: "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

And he says: "I don't know how to do this."

And he says: "I want you to be happy here."

And he says: "I love you."

But it never comes out the right way when he speaks, so instead he says: "Your theatrics are quite uncalled for, Miss Granger."

And he says: "You brought this on yourself, you know."

And he says: "If you'll quit your sniveling, I'll give you the bloody potion."

And he says: "Please forgive me."

Her sobs stop abruptly and she stares at him with a bewildered expression.

And he says: "Love me."

And as she opens her mouth to speak, he says: "Obliviate!"

As he watches the realization drain from her eyes, he wonders what she was going to say. And he wonders if maybe next time, he'll have the nerve to let her answer him.

He pulls a vial of dreamless sleep from his night stand drawer and pops the cork with his thumb. Holding it to her lips, he whispers, "Drink this, Miss Granger."

She lets the potion slide down her throat like it's the most natural thing in the world.

When she wakes in the morning, Hermione Granger is overcome with the odd sensation that she has missed out on something vaguely important. But as with all feelings she tries to seize from the clutches of sleep, this particular feeling slips through her grasp and fades into nothingness. Her arms clutch instinctively around the book tucked to her breast and she pulls it free to study the cover. It is an old book, but not ancient. Her finger trails over the worn gold lettering and she is just able to make out the title. She doesn't care over much for fiction, but she consoles herself with the fact that she's always wanted to read Wuthering Heights, but never yet found the time.