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A/N: Once again, JK Rowling (and her various publishers) own all that is "Harry Potter and". Moreover, they earn all monies and revenues from its various copyrighted ventures.

Anything you may think that you recognize within this story is only 'borrowed' from Ms Rowling, and will be promptly returned to her (in reasonable condition) when I'm through "playing" with them. snicker

I own nothing except my twisted imagination, along with the plot of this story, and earn no money from either. Sadly unfortunate for me, sigh, but completely true.

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AUTHOR'S WARNING: A sexual act between an adult and a minor is insinuated within this chapter, but nothing graphic is actually depicted.

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CHAPTER 17: REFLECTIONS, HERS

Hermione Granger stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Professor Severus Snape slowly rose from his chair at Voldemort's left side, and mockingly sauntered the few steps down from the dais to billow in lazy black circles around her.

She swallowed hard, and her heart began to hammer violently within her aching ribcage.

Derisive sniggers, hateful comments, and outright laughter began to jeer cruelly down upon her from the assembled Inner Circle of Death Eaters, now seated in two long lines extending from either side of the Dark Lord's central, throne-like chair.

Sitting dejectedly on the cold stone floor near each of those elite Death Eater's chairs were many former students, Muggleborns, who she knew from shared classes or the Gryffindor common room. Now, they were obviously the property of the enemy . . . merely war trophies.

Bellatrix Lestrange arched her left foot briskly forward, and kicked Justin Finch-Fletchley in his ribs with a sharply pointed leather clad toe. Her high-heeled black boot knocked the breath out of her new Hufflepuff toy with a "whoosh" of instant prostration.

Bella giggled madly, and then licked her full garnet lips in greedy anticipation. She possessively rested her booted, crossed ankles across Justin's broad back, and used his prone body as her footstool.

Bellatrix turned her attention back to the festivities. Little flames of self-satisfaction, and giddy anticipation, danced in wicked delight within her glittering dark eyes at this latest turn of events in Hermione Granger's life.

She understood the 'special' imprecations of this particular Mudblood's new 'circumstances' better than any other witch present.

Years earlier, when Bellatrix Lestrange had still been completely sane and quite beautiful, she had once fucked Severus Snape to relieve him of the burden of his virginity . . . although it had only happened because the Dark Lord had ordered her to do so.

It occurred at the very first Dark Revel that Severus had ever attended, when he'd been an awkward, hormonally unrelieved, lonely, fifteen-year-old friend and Slytherin classmate of her younger brother-in-law, Rabastan Lestrange.

Lucius Malfoy was throwing a party to celebrate his induction into Death Eater society. He invited his younger cousin, Severus to attend that as well as the Revel to follow, just as Lord Voldemort had ordered.

The Dark Lord was interested in the brilliantly talented, dark Half-blood Prince, and this was but the first step in seducing him into His service.

Bellatrix had nearly scrubbed herself raw, afterwards, attempting to wash the homely, greasy, gangly teenager from her; however, even as a virgin schoolboy, Severus Snape made a lasting impression upon Bella.

The tall-for-his-age dark-haired, dark-eyed boy, who had grown up to later become the surly Potions Master of Hogwarts, was rivaled only by her Master in the size of his cock as well as his stamina in the sexual arena. His cock should rip the snooty little Mudblood asunder!

Bella was cackling madly at her surprisingly fond, crystal-clear, memory of the never-repeated carnal deed. She wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of one eye with a black-lace gloved hand, as she struggled to calm herself and regain control over her madness, before it offended the Master.

Hermione Granger was abruptly certain that her fate couldn't possibly be good, not if Bellatrix Lestrange was looking forward to what was about to happen to her! She anxiously met her former Professor's glittering onyx stare, like a wounded wild animal hopelessly trapped in a hunter's snare.

'Merciful Merlin!' she thought. 'I'd always thought his eyes were so cold! They're certainly not cold now. Well . . . maybe coldly calculating, but the Professor has never looked at me like THIS before. Why is he looking at me like . . . like . . . a choice morsel on his dinner plate? Is that . . . could that be . . . lust? Oh gods! Oh gods, oh NO!'

Then she'd heard his voice, that lovely deep baritone, the one that her ignorant schoolgirl-self had once fantasized about, spewing out the horrible, mocking, hurtful words:

"Thank you, my Lord, for your most generous gift. She is indeed a worthy prize, and I look forward to . . . mastering her," he'd said, obviously referring to her, as he politely thanked the monstrosity that was Lord Voldemort, for giving her to him.

Hermione's brown eyes widened almost to the size of saucers, and she felt her stiff lips form a silent 'O' of pure outrage. She was NO ONE's property!

The Professor scornfully laughed down at her, as he drank in her disbelieving expression; then he focused once more on Voldemort, and smoothly drawled, "After all, my Lord, all Mudblood witches are the same in the dark. Suitable cumbuckets, all."

Snape's only change of expression was a jubilant, leering, smirk of his thin lips focused down on the battered, kneeling, young Gryffindor witch staring gobsmacked up at him.

Voldemort threw back his slick reptilian head and roared with laughter . . . whether at Snape's words, her expression or, most probably, some warped combination of both, Hermione Granger hadn't a clue!

Her open-mouthed, disbelieving, shock at that hateful slur, rolling so easily off the Professor's tongue, brought even more raucous laughter and jeers from the assembled Death Eaters watching the drama playing out before them.

His eyes, those savagely beautiful, gloating, sin-black eyes, fiercely bored into hers for a long, intense, moment, as if he was somehow trying to communicate wordlessly with her.

Snape suddenly grabbed her right arm and jerked Hermione up against his leanly muscled, hard body. She felt an unexpected surge of immense, magical power wash throughout her entire being, as she was held so crushingly tight against his tall frame. Before Hermione could even react, those twisted, smirking lips crashed down upon her own bleeding mouth, and mysteriously stopped Time.

The enormous power of the magical bond that he had somehow forged between them, seemingly with a mere kiss, simply took her breath away!

Hermione had always assumed that Professor Snape would be just as cold as the austere, touch-me-not aura that he always projected. She'd been so very wrong about that! Severus Snape, the man, wasn't cold at all.

Sweet Merlin! He BURNED!

Oh gods! The intense passion that Hermione felt raging deeply within this dark, difficult, man, as he held her so intimately close against his lean, unyielding body, seemed to sear its way into her very soul with that Kiss!

That unexpected, volatile, mind-blowing Kiss . . . that tasted richly of sugary vanilla, some kind of light sweet wine, and the thick coppery-tang of blood. Her own blood . . . from her split, bleeding, bottom lip.

Dear gods! Her Professor had kissed her!

Her whole concept of the world suddenly surrealistically twisted sideways, like a Dali painting, beneath the fiery pressure of that amazing Kiss, while she'd been so fervently clasped in the circle of his tensed, powerful, arms.

Hermione hadn't even felt him performing the Side-Along Apparation from the Great Hall, to wherever this was that they'd ended up!

It was as if Time, itself, had somehow become 'unstuck' in that endless, infinite, moment of their mingled kiss. As if they'd slipped into a sort of "Timelessness", where absolutely nothing else existed for either of them, beyond the circle of 'Them' . . . consisting only of their conjoined lips and intertwined bodies.

The only reality Hermione knew, in that endless, awesome, Moment was the deep wealth of possessive desire burning so whitehotly within her Professor's firm lips, as well as his tautly controlled, unbelievably well-fitting body now moulded so wondrously tight and warm against her own, like the perfect dance partner.

Just as quickly as Professor Snape had grabbed her, he released Hermione the instant she came to her senses. She'd finally become aware enough of the Present to begin fiercely struggling against being violated, of being taken in some kind of weird orgiastic rite, right there in the Great Hall in front of Voldemort and his pack of elite Death Eaters.

Hermione had been amazed when she'd opened her eyes and discovered to her surprise that, instead of still being within the Great Hall of Hogwarts, they were now standing in what seemed to be the Professor's private library. The Professor then shocked her further, when he drawled out, "Strip off your clothes, Miss Granger."

Then the edges of that reality shifted, as it blurred again, and Hermione felt herself unexpectedly falling! Falling down, down, down, spiraling rapidly toward the hard ground below, just as if she had fallen off a broom, from somewhere high above the Quidditch pitch.

She jerked upright in the bed, and screamed herself awake, just before hitting the ground. A cool rush of relief washed over Hermione; it had simply been a bad dream!

Thank Merlin! She'd only been having a nightmare. Rather, Hermione had been relieved, but that relief was short-lived as her fear-alert dark amber eyes rapidly took in the bright morning sunshine streaming in the large windows, illuminating her present surroundings.

Her many bandaged, freshly healed cuts and bruises had twitched against their soft padding, reminding her of their presence, with her precipitous awakening from where she'd been sleeping in what proved to be a strange bed.

The full-force of her current situation came crashing back down upon her, as the horrific realization of her predicament suddenly overwhelmed her.

Dear gods! It was true! It hadn't all simply been some terrible nightmare; they actually had lost the battle to Voldemort. She really was now the personal property of her former Professor, his slave for the taking . . . whenever he so desired.

Sweet Merlin! What was she supposed to do?

Hermione attempted to lick her fear-dry lips with a tongue-tip that was equally parched. She managed, with some difficulty, to croak out the single word, "Water."

Gristle, the wizened little house elf that Hermione remembered from last night, instantly popped in bearing a silver tray that contained a crystal pitcher of cold water and a tumbler, along with several bottles, pots, and vials of various potions and unguents.

"Gristle sees that Missy has waked now," Gristle said. "Master said Gristle is to tend to Missy's needs this morning, as long as Missy is 'greeble."

The little house elf stared into Hermione's brown eyes with its too-large blue eyes for a long moment, after setting the heavy tray down on a nearby bed table. "Is Missy 'greeble this morning to having Gristle attending her?" she curiously asked, as she poured a glass of cold water and passed it to Hermione.

"If the Professor wishes it, then yes, I am agreeable. After all, I am now just as much a slave as you are, and have to obey him also," was Hermione's bitter reply, once she'd had taken several long swallows of water.

Gristle fiercely shook her fuzzy head in the negative, and retorted, "Master is wrong for once, then. Missy is not so know-it-all, as Master said she is! Master has taken great care with the Missy; why does Missy believe these wicked things of my Master?"

Hermione was taken aback by Gristle's simple question. Exactly why did she believe that the Professor meant her any harm? She let her right hand drift up to tentatively touch the thick gauze pad that she felt stuck to her left cheek; it refused to lift away. Some form of secure Sticking Charm must hold it in place.

Her left hand slid down to gently stroke the nearly quarter-of-a-meter-long gauze bandage, now covering where she'd been so badly burnt over almost the whole of her left thigh. It was barely even tender any longer; obviously, the Professor had been truthful about healing her, and she hadn't felt a single twinge of pain as he'd done so . . . just as he'd promised!

Ever practical, Hermione made her first 'agreeable' request of the day to Gristle, "I need to use the loo. And I'd like to take a bath and shampoo my hair, if it's permissible with your Master."

Gristle bowed her fuzzy head and answered, "If Missy will follow, Gristle will show her the faculties." The little house elf said it in such a respectful, 'superior-servant' tone, with her broad elfin face tilted just-so, that Hermione couldn't find it within her heart to correct the house elf's misspoken word, even as she struggled not to laugh at it.

The Professor must refer to the loo as the 'facilities', and his house elf copied his word-choice. Still, Hermione couldn't repress her small smile at this tiny glimmer into the 'private' life of the dark wizard who was now her master.

Word-choice often gave glimpses into a person's personality, Freudian slips, as it were. This simple choice told Hermione that the Professor must be an old-fashioned gentleman, and a bit 'formal' in his form of address, as compared to the slang used by all of her former classmates and teenaged acquaintances.

That wasn't really news to Hermione. She'd already surmised as much from observing him for years in his classrooms; his unyieldingly perfect posture, his precise manner of teaching, as well as those rather somber, stuffy, black Edwardian suits that he preferred.

Hermione's mind came full-circle, thinking about how she'd once fantasized about unbuttoning all of those tiny, imprisoning, buttons on that black frock coat, and running her hands over his shirted chest. Thinking about the Professor's clothing, she looked down at her own nudity, and wondered where her clothes were.

"Where are my things? My clothes?" Hermione demanded of the house elf who was standing by, waiting for the Missy to rise and follow her.

Gristle sniffed, copying her Master's disdainful expression as nearly as a house elf could hope to ever achieve, as she replied, "The Master ordered Gristle to 'Burn those reeking, wretched, articles. I will not tolerate their stench in my rooms for another second'. Burn them t'was Gristle ordered. Burn them Gristle did."

Hermione rocked back-and-forth a moment, trying to control her bladder. Damn it, nothing for it except to 'go'. Nude, if necessary!

She jerked the sheet that she'd been clutching to her breasts free from the tuck at the foot of the bed, and wrapped it loosely around her. "The facilities, NOW!"

Gristle jumped to obey, and rapidly moved to a door to the right of the bed that Hermione hadn't noticed. Not that she'd had the time, yet, to notice anything about her surroundings except the quality of the Egyptian cotton sheets and softness of the thick mattress she'd slept on.

A marvelously decadent 'facility' it was indeed! It held a separate small room for the water closet, a long dressing table that held an alabaster hand sink with ornate gold taps, and a marble tub, large enough to comfortably hold two, sunken into the stone floor tiles. There was even a small fireplace to remove the chill from the permanently-cold stone fixtures.

She'd never have pictured Professor Snape as having such positively baroque taste in his furnishings, or the financial resources that a bathroom like this must have cost. She had thought his taste would have been positively spartan!

What else didn't she know about the man who now was her Master?

Mercifully, Gristle 'popped' out while Hermione took care of her most pressing issue within the water closet. She'd just finished, flushed, and was washing her hands when the house elf reappeared, holding a sealed letter in her little gnarled hand.

"Tis for you, Missy," Gristle said as she thrust it out to Hermione.

Hermione calmly dried her hands on a nearby towel, and took the proffered missive. She studied the wax seal for a moment. The wax was blood red, just like the Professor's correction ink, and the stamped image upon it consisted of twin serpents twisting into double S's; his initials.

She broke the seal and began to read the hastily scrawled, spidery script. Hermione instantly recognized the handwriting on the letter; she had seen it splashed in blood-red corrections all across her essay parchments she'd written in her classes every year for the Professor.

It seemed rather strange to Hermione to be reading an actual letter from her Professor, addressed to her, worded in simple conversation, and written in expensive black India ink, instead of the great bloody swathes of corrections splashed all across her hard work.

The letter read:

Miss Granger,

I apologize for my absence this morning. I trust your injuries are much improved, and that you are feeling better today.

Gristle has instructions to provide you with anything you need, within reason . . . the exceptions being the use of a wand, or aiding you to escape.

She has also inquired about your bathing. It is permissible, as long as you reapply the healing unguent to your thigh afterwards.

She can remove your bandages, and will assist you in these things as my emissary. I should return in time to escort you for down for dinner.

Dinner is served promptly at seven. Our host is a stickler for proper manner and dress.

Semi-formal, if you'd oblige me.

Until then,

Professor Severus R. Snape

Hermione curled her fist up, crumpling the letter into a ball. She stalked out of the bathroom, clutching the slipping sheet more tightly against her breasts, and sat back down on the edge of the bed with a perturbed 'flop'.

After Hermione calmed herself with a few deep breaths, she smoothed the wrinkles from the letter, and re-read it once more . . . slowly.

Gristle hesitantly followed Hermione back into the bedchamber. "Missy is angry that my Master will not be with her today?" she cautiously questioned the obviously miffed young witch.

Hermione sighed in pure exasperation. "No! I'm glad the Professor isn't here this morning. I really wouldn't trust myself to keep from shouting at him. MEN!" she fumed aloud. "Semi-formal dinner attire, if you please! And the great git left me here NAKED! I wonder if a bed sheet sarong would be considered semi-formal enough for a host who is a stickler for proper etiquette, as the 'Master' left me with nothing else to wear?"

Gristle tipped her greying fuzzy head to one side, and stared at Hermione as she ranted, a smile ever widening across her broad elfin face. "Aaaaahh! If Missy wishes it so, Gristle can fetch Missy clothes," she smugly answered. "Clothes for Missy is not like clothes for house elves! Many clothes are they to pick from in the attics, many very beautiful clothes. Yes, yes! Gristle can see beautiful clothes on Missy right now. Master will be most proud of the beautiful Missy."

Hermione promptly snapped her mouth shut, re-opening and re-shutting it several times, each time to prevent herself from 'venting' a select few of the impressive curse words she'd learnt from George and Fred Weasley, as the twins had 'colourfully' cheered for Gryffindor and 'rudely' booed all opposing teams during Quidditch matches.

Her present situation wasn't Gristle's fault, after all. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could subvert the house elf toward her favour, later, by being friendly and agreeable now.

Finally, Hermione managed a rather stilted, "Yes. That would be just lovely. Thank you, Gristle. The first thing I'd like is some breakfast, and then a long, hot bath, if you'll unstick my bandages for me please. I would appreciate anything that you can do to possibly supply me with suitable clothing, until I can discuss the subject further with the Professor later tonight."

There. That was as "greeble" as Hermione Granger felt like being just now; trying to force anything more polite out of her mouth would surely crack her teeth, so tightly were her jaws clenched. Her words must have been adequate, however, as Gristle bobbed her large, fuzzy head in acquiescence and popped out, presumably to fetch her some food.

Hermione began to tap one foot impatiently against the thick oriental carpet beneath it, as she fumed and glared around the luxuriously furnished bedchamber she currently occupied.

She thought, to her disgust, that Lavender Brown would have positively loved this room; all white and pink and gold, too richly furnished, almost gaudy in its frills and frou-frous. It was an altogether a fitting room for a bordello . . . or a whore!

Hermione Granger loathed Lavender Brown's taste in everything, except for her taste in the boyfriend that she'd tried to steal from Hermione last year.

Lavender Brown probably would've also loved being the 'bed warmer' of such a powerful, elite member of the New Wizarding World Order as the Professor!

Snape's bed warmer, HAH!

If the Professor thought to keep her sequestered within this gilded prison cell twenty-four hours per day, NAKED, as if locked away awaiting the servicing of his Pleasure, then he'd best provide her with her own personal library, or some other useful occupation for her hands and mind.

Something Else to do, besides throwing and breaking the chamber's expensive bric-a-brac, as her current temper urged her to do, that is.

Otherwise, Professor Severus R. Snape would most certainly find Miss Hermione J. Granger's bed a decidedly chilly place to visit.

A positively . . . arctic . . . experience for him, with her as his 'bed warmer' indeed!

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(Earlier the same morning, at Hogwarts)

Scratch sat curled in a mournful huddle in the darkened corner of the Dark Lord's bathroom near Luna's open Dower Chest.

His Mistress was in a bad way. Huge tears slowly trickled down his ancient elfin cheeks, gathering in his deep wrinkles, before dripping off his pointed, warty, chin.

Scratch had already been old when his Mistress' father had been born. That was almost a century ago, and right now Scratch felt every single one of his nearly seven hundred years weighing him down. He ached for his beloved Mistress, and longed to take all of her injuries and pain away for her.

Scratch understood that the Mating must happen between witches and wizards. Mating was needed for making babies. But never before had any of the Lovegood witches been so very injured while mating with a wizard! This couldn't be right . . . could it?

Until Luna talked to him about it, there was little that Scratch could do for his Mistress, other than pass her more of the healing things from her Dower Chest.

He leapt to obey, as she called for the next potion from her reclined position in the large soaking tub. Luna's muffled sobs and agonized groans of pain tore at her house elf's ancient heart, as she struggled to heal herself and to make as little noise as possible while she did so.

Scratch was at a complete loss as to how to help his traumatized Mistress. He cut his tear-filled yellow eyes toward the bathroom door, as he seriously pondered if he dared to slip out and kill He-Who-Had-Done-This-To-His-Mistress while He still slept.

Only his fear that he might fail to kill Him thoroughly enough stopped Scratch from putting action to his thought. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was terribly difficult to kill, fully!

If Scratch failed, and if HE survived yet again, his Mistress would surely pay the price for his unsuccessful attempt.

Scratch snivelled, wiped his tears and elf-snot off onto his wrinkled arm, and then returned to his dark corner, to quietly await Luna's next order.

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As dawn's first gloaming trickled into Voldemort's bedchamber window, Luna stifled a groan of pain and slowly eased herself out of his sleeping embrace. Her husband had cast a 'Scourgify' over both of them, as well as her ruined white silk sheets, before he'd pulled Luna tightly against his side and shut his satisfied ruby eyes.

His spell had worked to remove the bloody evidence of their nuptial consummation, and Voldemort had fallen into a deep, exhausted, fully sated slumber.

Unfortunately, it hadn't prevented a fresh accumulation of blood from renewing itself in a thick puddle beneath Luna's bum from the internal injuries their fierce coupling had left the petite young witch with.

As she struggled to crawl to the edge of the bed, without waking her husband and possibly having to endure a repeat performance of the night before, Luna left a long, wide, crimson smear across her half of the bed.

She had to lie there, exhausted, panting from the pain, and tightly clutching the edge of the wide bed for a few minutes before she could attempt to swing her feet off onto the carpet.

Sweet gods! Could one's intestines fall out of one's private place after having sex for the first time?

At that moment, it seemed a highly likely possibility to Luna, formerly Lovegood, now Lady Voldemort. She made a valiant attempt to raise herself up; it was unsuccessful, so she simply rolled off the bed, and landed face down onto the thick oriental carpet covering that space of cold flagstone floor beside Voldemort's massive bed.

For the very life of her, Luna couldn't summon the strength to do more than crawl towards the bathroom, painting a trickling trail of crimson bloodstains as she inched along. It became a grim mission to Luna: simply to make it into the bathroom, for safety and healing, without disturbing her husband's sleep.

She'd scoot half a body-length, then she'd lay her head down against the cool flagstone, to rest and regain her breath for a long moment; each forward pull of her bruised, ripped and battered body sending fresh shockwaves of pain radiating throughout her injured being.

It seemed to Luna that it took her an hour to finally reach the bathroom door. She managed to raise herself up onto her knees, pulling herself up by using the doorframe for support, and twisted the knob open before falling down again.

However, this time when Luna went down, she landed in Scratch's outstretched, loving arms. He pulled his Mistress into whatever thin veneer of safety his gnarled arms provided, dragged her injured body the rest of the way into the bathroom with him, and quietly shut the door behind them.

Thank the gods for house elves!

End of Chapter 17

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A/A/N: I apologize for the length of time it has taken me to complete Chapter 17, and hope that you have enjoyed reading it . . . now that it has finally been posted.

If you remember from a couple of months ago, I told you that I was re-posting this story on an Adults Only site, as I am troubled with knowing that Minors are reading the very Mature Content of "Refuge".

I discovered (thankfully in time to "edit" my LL/LV lemon chapter for here) that simply rating my story as "M" wasn't preventing children as young as twelve-years-old from reading it here on this site. (Don't ask me where their parents are, because I haven't a clue!)

If the parents or site will not address what is "put-out-there" for the consumption of Underage Readers then, as the author of this story, I feel that I must take the responsibility to 'edit' the "racier" bits of my original version of "Refuge" out prior to posting it on a site without any age restrictions.

I thank each of my readers for your continued support and understanding of my sense of accountability toward the Minors who are reading this story right along with you adults, here on .

If you are over the age of 18, and wish to read the fully beta-d, unabridged, uncensored version of this story . . . the way I originally envisioned it, before making so many, many cuts and edits for this open-age site, then I invite you to re-read it on AdultFanFiction, the Adults ONLY, age-monitored FanFiction site.

The title has been abbreviated to "Refuge Has Its Price" and it is listed in the Harry Potter heterosexual category, SS/HG subdomain, on AFF. I think you will find it well worth your effort to give it a re-read there; hopefully, the more explicit details there will "fill-in" the gaps missing from the story for you.

Thank you for your time, understanding, and continued reading and reviewing of "Refuge". I simply want to make this the best story possible for everyone reading on both sites.

Most sincerely,

Victoria Prince, author

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