Chapter Text
Twenty minutes into the Order Christmas party, and Severus’s face is already between her legs.
Hermione braces her hands on the panelled door at her back, his wards tingling against her palms. She knows his magic almost as well as he knows her body. As she gasps and grips his hair, he releases a sighing moan, as if he thoroughly enjoys the maddeningly slow slide of his tongue against her. He knows how close she is. He has to.
If she asks, he will go faster, add pressure, make her come. He always fulfills the requests she whispers when they are alone, as long as she doesn’t ask him to get undressed.
Even after all they’ve done together, Severus still keeps his robes on—the same ones he used to wear to teach. At first, she liked the roughness of wool rubbing against her thighs as he thrust into her. It felt illicit, forbidden. Like he was still her professor.
Now, she longs to see him stripped bare. Severus crooks his fingers inside of her, and she imagines unfastening that long row of buttons. He makes another sighing moan, and she pretends she can feel the heat of his naked skin against hers. Another flick of his tongue and the rising wave of pleasure within her bursts, pulsing outward.
Standing, Severus crushes his mouth to hers. Her hands map out what she can feel of him through his robes: the width of his shoulders, the curve of his waist, the hardness of his cock. She knows his body, too, even if she hasn’t seen him naked. She knows what he likes. If she drops to her knees, she knows she can turn him into the one who is gasping, quivering, begging.
“I want to fuck you,” he says against her lips. “Get on the bed.”
She obeys. She always does. They are in the bedroom she used to share with Ginny when they stayed at Grimmauld Place, and it hasn’t changed at all. Same peeling brown wallpaper, same creaky single beds, same aura of 1975. The springs on one of the beds give an almighty protest as she crawls into the middle of the mattress on her hands and knees. Severus is behind her in the next instant, lifting her skirt, rubbing a hand over her hip, dropping a kiss to the centre of her back.
“Yes?” he asks.
Arousal always turns him taciturn, sharpens the edge of his voice. Often, it’s just one word at a time. Kneel. Yes. Fuck. Hermione.
Hermione looks at him over her shoulder. He has his trousers unfastened, one hand wrapped around his cock, idly stroking up and down as he stares at her. She is tempted to roll onto her back and let herself enjoy that sight for a while, but she is too impatient. She needs to feel him inside her.
“Yes,” she says.
A sigh falls from his lips. He enters her slowly, inch by inch, pausing to savour the moment he fills her completely.
“Severus,” she says when he doesn’t move.
His breathy chuckle tickles the back of her neck. When this thing—whatever it is—between them first started, he was touch starved. He used to grip her hips, holding her still as she rode him, afraid he would come too quickly. Now, he stops moving to torture her. If asked, he will say it’s to draw out her pleasure, but she knows better. He’s getting even for every time she squirmed in his lap, every time she whispered, “Just let go. I want to make you come.”
Finally, he draws out slowly and slams back in. He circles her clit with deft fingers, his cock hitting the perfect spot with every thrust. His other hand tangles in her hair, pulling just hard enough. It doesn’t take long before it’s all too much. That top-of-the-roller-coaster stomach drop is the only warning she gets before she’s clenching around him, calling out his name.
There is a certain moan Severus makes when he comes—a soft gasp followed by a long groan. Hermione grins into the duvet at the sound. If they wouldn’t be missed, she could hide in this room all night, making him moan like that again and again.
She lets out a murmur of protest as he pulls out of her, but the way he reclines on the bed and smiles at her makes up for it. Something about the unguarded warmth of that smile makes her feel as if it’s something she isn’t supposed to witness. Like she’s Psyche, stealing a glimpse of Cupid.
“Severus?” she says, kissing his clothed shoulder when he makes a lazy hum in response. “Are you ever going to let me see you with your robes off?”
He arches an eyebrow. “I was unaware you wished to.”
She snorts. “Of course I do. I spend rather a lot of time thinking about it.”
He runs his fingertips absentmindedly over the back of her thigh, each tickling pass making her shiver. “Do you, indeed?” he asks.
“Yes. And I have a very vivid imagination.”
Another one of those smiles. This cannot possibly last. Nothing this good ever does. Oil is going to drip from her lamp. She’s going to get caught.
Downstairs, Hermione weaves through the noise and laughter of the party, trying to look composed. If her friends find out what she’s been getting up to with Severus, they will sour her good mood with their anger masquerading as concern. They will eventually understand. Probably. Very eventually, in Ron’s case.
On her way to the kitchen, Hermione steers clear of Percy, who is talking to Oliver Wood and Audrey. Lavender watches the trio, not-so-sneakily listening in and ignoring whatever Ron is yammering to her about. The last thing Hermione wants is to get drawn into yet another conversation with Percy about his new job in the regulation of magical imports. She wonders at Lavender’s eavesdropping, until she catches the words the Cannons’ new Keeper from Ron. Ah. That would explain it.
She is less successful at avoiding Horace Slughorn. He corners her next to the long kitchen table as she pours herself a glass of warm, fragrant mulled wine. Damn. He has an ingratiating smile on his face, and his moustache is full of crumbs from the mince pie in his hand.
“I’m concerned about you, Hermione,” he says, the smile no less oily as it turns down at the corners and becomes a frown. “Is he really the best choice for you?”
She blinks, all innocence, but she can tell he isn’t fooled. He knows. They weren’t as careful as they could have been when they left the bedroom. Hermione turned at the last second to kiss Severus’s cheek. Slughorn must have seen them.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says.
Slughorn sighs, like she has disappointed him by not instantly spilling all of her secrets. “I think you do.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, you and Severus? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. How did it even start?”
In a broom cupboard at Ron’s birthday party.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think that is any of your business.”
Sir. She could kick herself for calling him that. Like she's still a schoolgirl, eager for her teacher’s approval.
“Hermione, think about your future. He is not well liked in our world, and you are so ambitious. You want to make a difference. His reputation will hold you back. And, well, there are things you don’t know about him, my girl.”
Things she doesn’t know about him? Harry already shouted Severus’s deepest secret across a battlefield.
Didn’t he?
“What information do you think I’m lacking?” she asks.
“It is not my secret to tell.” Stroking his moustache, scattering crumbs, he sighs. “But I would strongly advise you to end this thing with him.”
Something like panic tightens around Hermione’s throat at those words. End this thing with him.
“We’re just having fun,” she says, voice too high and forceful. She takes a sip from her glass, trying to swallow her panic along with the spiced wine. “It’s nothing serious. It’s not going anywhere.”
It tastes like a lie, but she isn’t ready for it to be all out in the open. She wants her secret romance to remain behind locked doors—wants to keep Severus to herself for now.
“Ah.” Slughorn beams. “I am relieved to hear that. I must admit, I worried that he may have slipped you a love potion.”
She huffs, her face warming with an angry flush at Slughorn’s assumption that Severus would need a love potion in order to seduce her.
“You know those have been outlawed,” she says.
Slughorn looks as if he pities her.
Not five minutes after her conversation with Slughorn, Hermione finds Severus digging through the overloaded coat rack in the entryway. When he knocks over the troll foot umbrella stand, he lets out something near a growl and summons his coat with an Accio. Several of the other jackets fall to the tiled floor. He leaves them there.
“You’re going already?” she says.
“Yes.”
There is no one around, so she darts in closer to steal a kiss. Severus steps back, out of her reach, the dodge as effective as is if he conjured a wall between them. Her stomach sinks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing.” His mouth presses into a thin line, no hint of that warm smile he’d given her earlier. “Though I think this has run its course, don’t you? It was fun, but it’s unlikely to go anywhere.”
Oh. He overheard.
“Severus,” she says, trying to touch his arm. He jerks away. “I don’t… I was hardly going to speak candidly about anything private to Horace Slughorn, was I?”
Why is he so angry? She can’t believe he would want her to reveal all to anyone—Slughorn least of all.
“Don’t go,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to broadcast anything without discussing it with you first. I didn’t agree with anything Slughorn said about you.”
He sneers, the twist of his mouth catapulting her six years back in time. “No? I did not hear you contradict him, so I see no difference.” Each clearly enunciated syllable punches her in the gut. “Why would I stay?”
He walks away without waiting for a response, robes billowing.
She lets him go.