Black and White

This fic becomes AU after the Goblet of Fire.

Warnings: The story may get a bit dark. I'm flirting with notions that some may understand as abuse, and if you're not comfortable with it I suggest you leave the fic. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Also, I have a group of people I must thank. First, Gildorelf for the plotbunny. Second (but not least) to the group of wonderful people who have helped me betaing this fic. Cynthia, Maddy, Alysya, Venefica, Meg, Tawa, Flourishnblotts.
And in 2005 Nevermore joined the ranks and gave the text a final sweep, getting rid of awkward punctuation and plot holes I didn’t even know were there. You were amazing, and not a pain at all. Thanks for helping me get through the way.


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Eventually, Hermione convinced him that Canada was the best possible option. It was close enough to allow the necessary shopping trips - a very stressful task - and yet distant and isolated enough to give them privacy.

She liked the idea of having friends nearby. Even if she could not visit Matt and Andrew, it was nice just knowing that there was someone there, someplace to go to, people who knew her. Hermione could be reserved, but she was not a hermit. Snape disliked her friends - and offered no excuses for that, typically - yet he decided to let her have her way in that small thing. (Hermione restrained from finding the reason, knowing with that intimate, unexplainable certainty that it was best not to probe too deeply.) As long as Hermione did not leave the place without him (there had been many assassinations of trainees), she could send them letters, or call them from some phone booth in the nearest town.

The cottage was, needless to say, very isolated, somewhere near the Rocky Mountains. Even though the Potion Master swore he did not make the property Unplottable, no one ever approached them in the nearly four months they had lived together. A small greenhouse provided most of the herbs and fungi they needed; there was a highly selected collection of books, most of them about the Dark Arts. The house itself was small and much cosier than anyone would expect from Severus Snape. He had firmly stated there would be no flowers in the house - and Hermione had resorted to using incense instead. Snape pretended to barely tolerate the stuff.

He had had virtually no problem about convincing her to share the bedroom.

He's spoiling me. I never thought I'd think waking up cuddling with a man would be a good idea. After all, they're generally quite heavy. Sometimes I have a cramp in my arm.

And yet I like it.

I like it too much, actually.

And not just any man, either. It's Severus Snape. I guess my friends would have a nervous breakdown if they knew about us. They'd feel betrayed, likely. We've spent so many times cursing the 'greasy bastard' to hell, discussing his unfairness and general evilness - and here I am, gloriously spooned against him, delighting in the warmth he provides. In everything he provides.

Everything feels so... strange.

Addictive.

It's not as if the boys came running to tell me whenever they shagged a girl in the past. It was none of my business. And yet they'll feel betrayed. As if I should ask them leave before I kissed, before I had sex with a man. With any man (well, maybe Harry wouldn't expect me to ask permission). But Snape - I could think of nothing worse, save perhaps falling in love with Malfoy.

Or maybe Malfoy is the second on this list. Hell, who cares? Apart from Draco Malfoy's irritating personality, he'd be one hell of a shag. If he could drag himself to pay attention to something other than himself, that is. He was so damned cute. In a bad-boy, I'm-gonna-drag-you-down-to-the-pit-with-me kind of way.

I know, from a very reliable source, that at least two-thirds of Hogwarts would have shagged him rotten if he gave them opening. Half of them not caring in the slightest if they'd be able to get away with it.

As Ron would say, women. Well, darling, we ladies don't figure you gentlemen - err, men - half as well as we'd like either.

This is none of their business. I just like Snape's company. Even though he can be a bastard, that he has a dark sense of humour, that he can make a hell of damage if he so desires.

And I like to talk to him, but that's expected. Comradery between two people who share points of view, life styles, goals. And I like the way we can drive each other crazy. Fuck property. There's nothing wrong about enjoying the attention of a dedicated, skilled lover. We are living in the twenty-first century, for pity's sake!

And I'm turning into an inveterate liar. Now I lie even to myself.

Hermione woke up pinned on the bed by a warm, heavy male body. It was a natural occurrence and she actually felt rather safe with that small show of possessiveness. It was as if Snape could only express it when he was not conscious, when his brilliant mind was shut off and the more basic side of him took the lead. Even when they were in the throes of passion, it was hard to make him lose control.

Albeit highly rewarding, she could say by experience.

She proceeded with the morning ritual of disentangling herself with utmost care, because Snape was a very light sleeper. Sometimes, she though that he had awoken, but let Hermione think she had succeeded in slipping away unnoticed. She put a silken robe on, because the air was still cool in spite of the warming spell they had placed inside. The woman heated the water for tea and prepared breakfast - whole bread, cheese, scrambled eggs and several kinds of fruit. They drove to the small village every time there was the need to go to the supermarket. It was a postcard-worthy scenery, really, particularly with the fading snow.

The scene was too domestic, but Hermione no longer bothered with it. In precisely half an hour, when Hermione had finished her shower, Snape would get out of bed, take a quick shower himself and join her for breakfast. They would discuss their latest achievements, the news in the Daily Prophet and sometimes make out a little before they started working on their Dark Arts training. They still talked about the Muggle world, rented videos and got Muggle magazines, but the in field aspect of his training had been sacrificed for their experiments.

Fascinating, Hermione thought, how easily one could fall prey to one's own fantasies.

I'll enjoy it while it lasts. For once, I'll just play it by ear.

She had an exciting job, one that allowed - and encouraged - her to reach past her limitations, learn more, excel. People would not know all the things she had in her mind (is it really something new, Herm old girl?). She could discuss her work only with other Unspeakables - the Department of Mysteries was worse than a goddamned Secret Society - and she did not like keeping secrets like those.

Guess it's all about keeping secrets. Will I ever be rid of them?

She could do with a nicer, less manipulative tutor, or a lover who actually loved her.

She wanted everything.

Problem is, not everyone can have everything.

Hermione felt a pang in her heart, knowing her training would be over in a couple of months and she would have to move on with her life, with or without Snape. Probably without.

Maybe it's better that way. It's too complicated. Damn it, just stop thinking about it every fifteen minutes!

Hermione felt comfortable in her fantasy-life and did not want to change - but she knew she'd have to.

Dark Arts was tougher than she had imagined. Sometimes, Hermione felt physically ill and Snape forced her to stop and rest. Hermione would rather dip into a pool of bubotuber pus before admitting weakness, but Snape had keen eyes and no desire to 'damage the material.'

"What use are you to us if you're sick?" he asked cruelly when she first insisted on continuing, despite her obvious exhaustion.

That had thoroughly confused her.

But now, lazily adding the tea leaves to the kettle, his way of work did not matter to her. All that mattered was to prove her worth in the eyes of her overly demanding master. If she did it, if she achieved a level of proficiency that he could call reasonable (with an uncaring shrug and a little twitch of his mouth), she'd be truly one of the best.

Denial again.

Mysterious Dark Art rituals - that were, for all evidence, newly made and created on the fly - and world war strategies, the webs of intrigue that were natural in her chosen profession. And Hermione wondered if she had fallen in the trap and given her heart to the one man in the world that was likely to be incapable of loving. No white horses riding off to the sunset, no candlelight dinners followed by gentle lovemaking before the fireplace. Not that she would ever be so cliché, heaven forbid it.

"That's superficial, a stereotypical piece of crap and unrealistic expectations that suits only hormone driven, naive fifteen year old bimbos."

Right?

The fox and the grapes...

Humph.

First sign of insanity, arguing with yourself.

How could she make Snape love her? He had so many wards around himself, Hogwarts paled in comparison. Besides, if she even tried to use a potion - he'd know straight away. And what she had won, that hard-earned respect and trust (Trust! How many people on earth does he trust?) would fly through the window in a second.

Love.

She'd have more chances with Lily Potter's blasted ritual.

And probably spend the first few years of her incredibly secretive and dangerous job picking back the pieces of her broken heart. Severus Snape was a dangerous man to play with.

At that moment Severus stepped out of the shower. She had drifted off in her reverie.

"Good morning, Hermione."

"Good morning, Severus." She called his given name purposefully. He no longer corrected her; apparently when a woman slept with him in a regular basis she could call him Severus. "I'll take my shower now. Breakfast is ready."

"I'll wait for you."

Hermione spent the rest of the morning pondering those words, even as she later worked on curses and counter-curses.

"I think the dragon blood is like unicorn blood, only with inverted properties," Hermione announced two months later, throwing down several hundred pages of notations. Snape arched his left eyebrow - she could now identify at least five different meanings to that small gesture. Currently it meant 'really?'- In a sarcastic tone, with a derisive smirk.

"Lily accepted the risk of magical backfire, so to speak," Hermione continued. "And the collateral effect was that much of Voldemort's powers passed to Harry. Parseltongue, uncanny talent for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Probably even raw magical power, making him stronger than he'd be ordinarily."

Snape stared at her. It was not natural for Hermione to state the obvious - not when there were no dummies she needed to teach. He cut her off immediately; wondering if he had worked her too hard and that was a sign of exhaustion. "That was a given, Hermione."

"The markings the Aurors came across are like nothing I've ever heard of. No one could ever explain them. I don't know, Severus, but maybe we should just give in. It's obvious she invented it shortly before Voldemort invaded their house. No one will ever find out what she was thinking then. There are no recorded reports, no journals, no nothing," Hermione rambled on, absolutely oblivious to Snape's shock. "Let's face it, it's a dead end."

She would not cry.

It really hurt to give in. That was probably the reason why she rarely did.

"Word, Will and Wand," Snape said, slowly, his trademark lazy drawl covered with a slight hint of humour.

"Excuse me? I think this is hardly the time for first year Theory of Magic."

"Hardly. The wand connects the energy within the wizard with the environment and makes the exchange possible. It's a channelling, a conductor. Will--"

"The Will," Hermione continued, not knowing what Snape was about, "is the energy within the wizard, the power to transform, to defy natural laws. And the Word is the key to the channelling."

"Not the Key," Snape corrected gently. That such a ruthless, wounded man could be gentle, that Hermione could catch glimpses of what he could have been was amazing. "It's a grip. It serves to firm the Will and direct it. As the Wand channels the Will inside out, the Word separates a specific Will - or energy - and keeps the others out of the equation. Words, Hermione, are for focus."

Hermione's jaw dropped.

"But how... why..." she asked stupidly, in one of the rare occasions when she acted like a youngster. Hermione watched as Snape walked around their wide worktable to stand beside her. "Why were we never taught any other way, then?"

Severus laughed. Every now and then the Potions master could surprise Hermione, and the honest amusement was one of those times.

"We wizards are a traditional lot. Once we are used to a certain way of doing things, we stick to it," he said, as if he was explaining a five-year-old why the ice melted.

If anything could increase Hermione Granger's sense of surrealism it was Severus Snape saying 'stick to it.'

"But all the schools in Europe teach the same spells!" Hermione cried out, still disbelieving. She had done research before, and corresponded with foreign wizards, and they all used the same spells, with little variation.

"That are no older than two thousand years and something. Dear, those are all Latin spells. With the Roman expansion, it was all too easy to adopt Latin as wizards' common language. Egypt, Syria, Assyr, Sumer, China, the Aztecs... all civilisations with at least one thousand years of magic practice. However, they were scattered, divided, and hardly able to understand each other - most of the Aztec wizards faded into the background with the Spanish colonisation and disappeared. The others tried to adapt to the globalised world in order to survive - and succeeded. These days, only a few chosen individuals still have access to those old spells and rituals. Treasure hunters, tomb raiders, some Story of Magic specialists, the occasional dynasty heir here and there..."

Hermione closed her mouth when her jaw began to throb in pain. She was infuriated - how could she have not thought of that before? She, the one Hogwarts student who actually paid attention to History of Magic!

"The Far East still uses most of the spells and rituals they used for nearly eight thousand years," Snape continued his lecture, his eyes alight with supercilious amusement and his voice smugly confident. "It's nearly incomprehensible for us, wizards of the Latin tradition. Their alphabet is damned difficult to master, so reading the ancient scrolls is almost impossible. The rituals and spells work in a way that can frustrate the most gifted wizard... One of the things that I do know is that the wizards in India still use chants and dancing to conjure magic. Can you imagine professor Flitwick teaching you the perfect way to twist and twirl to cause a certain effect? No, wait, do not imagine. You haven't done anything to deserve such punishment."

Snape chuckled. In spite of his best efforts, the image of tiny Flitwick swirling in the classroom had already formed in his mind. "Truth be told the Western Wizards have a more proficient way of casting a spell, if you're thinking of time and energy spent. In a magical duel, saying expeliarmus takes less time than toeing Buda's path on the ground while singing the god-knows-how-many virtues. If I got that one straight, that is. A nightmare, really, I tell you. Amazing. And that is one of the reasons why the communication between East and West is so difficult."

"Are you suggesting that I could reach the same results, even with different words?"

"As long as you can find a way to steer your will firmly in the desired direction, yes. It is hard, but not impossible."


Uncertainty did not become her. She loathed it.

"What is a word, but a concept voiced aloud? And what are letters, and all characters, but that same concept drawn - with ink, with colour crayons... with dragon blood?"

"The power of suggestion..." she whispered. "When I heard saying Alohomora could open a door if I said it and switched my wand, I believed it. Therefore it worked - isn't that what you're telling me? Faith. If you believe it with enough conviction, it will happen. But now that I know anything else could do the same I feel so... lost. It feels like the ground has disappeared from under my feet."

"You don't have to push it, Hermione. That would only make things harder," Snape said gently, entering her personal space and lazily unbuttoning her blouse, exposing creamy skin and a lacy violet bra. "We have progressed much in our research."

The blouse was gently pushed off her shoulders, and she was left wearing her bra and a mini skirt in the sun bathed workroom. Hermione became a trembling bunch of nerves.

"You will be one of a kind, Hermione," Snape continued, spreading light bites along her shoulders, kissing his way up to her neck and ears. "You are one of a kind."

That whispered confession was so simple, so fervent in its absolute honesty, that Hermione felt like crying. She bent her head backward to face him, seeing something new in those bottomless pits of black. Something that looked enormously like male triumph. Like a homecoming.

Like recognition.

However, Hermione did not have time to think about it, because she soon lost all rational though to glory in the feeling of a remarkable man ravishing her body. She was impatient with their clothes, well acquainted with the hunger he could conjure within her, wild and furious.

Snape looked entirely too smug when she ripped his shirt off, but he would not let her take his trousers off just yet. "Patience, Hermione. Good things come for those who wait."

"I don't want to wait now. I want you."

Snape chuckled low and laid her on the floor, covering her body with his, both of them still half-clothed. Snape had a very nice body, lean and firm - and he knew how to use every muscle. It was rather appropriate for him, that body that could so easily feign weakness while hiding so much strength.

He was truly full of surprises.

The warm weight upon her left leg left little doubt that Snape was as ready as she was, but he kept his distance, denying what they both wanted. What they both needed. "Not yet, not yet," he repeated quietly, kissing and caressing every inch of her body like she was something precious, fragile. Not bearing the longing any more, Hermione hooked her legs around his lean waist, urging him, teasing him. And yet he did not join her.

Snape kissed her throat, easily and methodically, making several faint marks on her pale skin. He teased her until she was writhing like a ghoul, and Hermione broke the skin of his back several times. He bent lower and lower, in tantalising circles, until he placed the most intimate kiss of all.

Hermione screamed.

He was being so uncharacteristically generous - not that he had ever left her frustrated - and it was fantastic. Mind-blowing. But Hermione could not, would not be satisfied with anything less than completeness. With all of her self-control - and no small amount of regret - Hermione pulled Severus up and kissed him hungrily, whilst her trembling fingers took the rest of their clothing off. Before Snape could regain his footing, she rolled him over and mounted him; trailing nervous, chaotic caresses across his chest and keeping eye contact at all times. They held hands while she rode him, hard, demanding everything - and giving everything. Two lovers who knew each other well. Then the climax came, as wild and furious as they had been, and the strength of their embrace was nearly bone breaking, but neither would have wanted it any other way.

When he stared at her, surprised, with the utterly helpless look of a terrified child, she knew.

But it still hurt her when he uttered the words.

"We cannot go on like this."

He pulled her gently off his body and rose in one fluid motion - but the grace was somewhat lost. Hermione saw how unsettled he was, Snape would have no chances of hiding it when he could not even wait long enough to get dressed before trying to escape. Escape her.

Escape them.

Life was such a bitch. She lost what she wanted most, exactly when she won it.

"I've come too close, haven't I?"