Chapter 1: An Accidental Affair
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Hermione muttered, glaring across the room at the black figure, approaching with long echoing strides like a study in supercilious self-possession. Without warning, Professor Snape turned on the spot, the closest students almost careening into his chest which, Hermione noted, he still held with all of the tension of someone trying not to fart.
“Merlin’s buggery bollocks,” she hissed through gritted teeth as his voice rang out like some morose bell with a particularly large clapper. Her hungover brain shrank away from her ears in protest.
“I expect you all to conduct yourselves with the utmost decorum.” He lifted his head at the end of his sentence as if conducting an orchestra with his prominent beak. “You are not to touch . . . any . . . of the artefacts.”
Hermione huffed audibly. He was clearly still over-using the dramatic pause.
“You will be required to write two feet of parchment about this excursion so ensure that you use this time wisely.” He now lowered his nose, bowing out of the one-sided conversation.
The students gradually dispersed as though only just discovering that they hadn’t been physically petrified by his words. Hermione remembered that intense discomfort only too well. Her heart had spent the vast majority of time in the dank dungeons, jiggling around her bellybutton like some sort of arrhythmic jellyfish.
So it was with some satisfaction that she now found herself feeling considerably more annoyed than afraid of him. She had changed since Hogwarts. The real world had hardened her. And being poor and almost perpetually hungover meant that she spent more time working on her caustic wit than trying to appease people who were nearly always wholly undeserving.
She stood very still. With any luck she might be able to hold her position between the two wooden cabinets, like some slightly dishevelled installation piece, and avoid engaging with him entirely as he stalked around the room, peering and prying like some sort of malevolent crow. Even if he had nearly died trying to save the wizarding world, he had been, and probably still was, a colossal asshole.
What the fuck?
He seemed to have stopped mid-snoop and was now surreptitiously backing up to one of the pieces. In fact, he appeared to be almost standing upon the plinth, his dark cloak spread ominously like the wings of a vampiric bat. Had he crossed the line? She was shocked. He, of all people, should know better than to cross the line.
Hermione stepped forward, trying to smooth down her hair which she felt curling like possessed Devil’s Snare. Marching officiously, she approached, stopping directly in front of him.
“Professor Snape, I would ask that you kindly step away from that piece.” She found herself adopting an unusually haughty demeanour, attempting to repay just a small fraction of the intimidation she had suffered at his hands over seven years of schooling. “You will notice that a line has been provided on the floor to indicate the appropriate proximity to each piece. Please ensure that you remain behind the line at all times.”
He glared at her, beetle black eyes glittering. “Miss Granger.” His voice sneered even if his ghostly face didn’t. “May I ask what authority you claim here?”
“I happen to work here, so I claim the authority of an employee who has been entrusted with protecting these artefacts. I’m afraid you’ll find that my authority surpasses that of a visiting secondary school teacher.”
His eyebrow ticked almost imperceptibly and she could tell by the icy blue motes that seeded the depths of his eyes that he was decidedly unimpressed.
“I see.” He inhaled sharply, finishing with a snort of displeasure. “Then I shall move. But only when the students are ready to leave. Another few minutes.”
It was Hermione’s turn to be taken aback. She was never challenged when it came to enforcing the ‘don’t cross the line’ rule. It was the most basic tenet of museum etiquette. And who the fuck did he think he was anyway?
“I’m afraid, Professor,” she over-pronounced the honorific, “that I can’t allow that. You will step away this instant or I am authorised to forcibly remove you.”
This time he did sneer. And fold his arms. She waited. Then pulled her wand.
His sneer dropped away. Clearly he remembered how adept she was, even as a student.
“Miss Granger.” His voice was barely a whisper as it curled around her name. She could feel every student’s ear straining toward them. “I think that would be most unwise, don’t you?”
Her eyes rested upon the deep furrow of his brow, absorbing the familiar paradox of his conciliatory and yet patently threatening tone. She sniffed disparagingly, determined to demonstrate that she was no longer cowed his presence. Then she took a step closer.
“Professor Snape,” she murmured. “I couldn’t give a Niffler’s ear what your credentials are. You will respect my authority here, or be subjected to the consequences.”
He scrutinised her in that same withering manner that had given rise to such memorable phrases as ‘insufferable know-it-all.’ She was too hungover to care. She just wanted him to go away.
“One would imagine,” his voice had dropped impossibly low, like the bottom key of an old piano, grating and unpleasant, “that being inebriated in the workplace might constitute some form of occupational health and safety breach.”
Her jaw tightened as she held her breath, trying to retract the fumes from last night’s bender despite the fact that they had clearly already entered his annoyingly proficient, patently pompous nostrils.
With a twist of her mouth, she suddenly raised her wand to him. His hand jerked up in response. As soon as his fingers touched the wood, a blue bolt shot from the end, blasting the object behind him.
With a gasp, she pushed him aside to reveal the tattered remains, crisp and smoking, of a book. Below it sat a card, unharmed and contemptuously white.
The Magic of Sex by Walter. P. Whiffle. Only known copy to survive the reign of Lord Barnaby the Pure.
“Look what you’ve done!” she cried.
“I did nothing, whatsoever,” he growled. “This was entirely your fault.”
Suddenly the ancient oak door flew open. In stormed a small man with round glasses and a long grey beard, followed by a tall man in a suit.
“What’s going on here!” the small man demanded, clapping his hands to draw their attention.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Dooley.” Hermione approached him. “I’m afraid there has been an accident.”
The man pushed past her and stood, staring at the smoking ruins, mouth agape, hands slowly curling into fists.
“Get these children out of here,” he growled, his gaze not deviating from the charred remains.
As the suited man shuffled the students from the room, their quiet murmurs receding into awkward silence, Hermione moved to the opposite side of the plinth. She didn’t want to be implicated with Snape in anything. He’d touched her wand. It was his fault it had discharged.
“What happened?” Mr Dooley turned to Hermione, his whiskery lips stretched tight like a rubber band.
“Well . . . um . . . I was trying to . . . um . . . enforce the museum rules regarding proximity to the . . . artefacts . . . but Professor Snape . . . he chose not to follow my instructions and . . . well . . . I warned him. But then he touched my wand and it . . . um . . . the book received a direct hit and it . . . “
“Professor?” The small man’s nose twitched in irritation as he glared up at the tall dark figure.
“I’m afraid Miss Granger was noticeably inebriated. When I informed her that she couldn’t be entrusted with this precious collection in such a condition, she proceeded to threaten me. Her wand discharged and this is the unfortunate result.”
Hermione’s eyes bugged and she inhaled deeply, ready to blast.
Mr Dooley raised a hand in her direction. “I’m not interested in hearing any more from either of you. There are two courses of action available. Either you come up with one hundred galleons each to pay for this piece. Or you find a replacement copy. You have one week. And Miss Granger . . . ,” He turned to her, raising a stubby finger, “if you fail to meet these requirements within seven days, your position here will also be terminated. Good day.” He turned in a flourish of robes and stomped out.
Hermione’s head thumped as she tried to process his words. Terminated? But how would she survive? She barely managed to pay for her miserly flat as it was. She’d worked at the museum for nearly three years and she’d always been reliable. He hadn’t even given her a chance to explain herself properly. One hundred galleons? Where the hell would she find that sort of money? And a replacement copy? Well that was laughable. Clearly the book was as rare as Cockatrice’s teeth. Or perhaps even non-existent now that the only copy had been reduced to a smouldering mess. It was so incredibly unfair. She felt tears pricking the edges of her bloodshot eyeballs. Then she remembered. She wasn’t alone.
Her gaze slowly shifted from the floorboards at her feet to the man who stood unmoving by the plinth, arms crossed, regarding her dispassionately. A ball of red-hot fury welled inside her until her vision swam.
“Satisfied now, Professor?” she seethed. “I hope you have a sizeable Gringott’s account. You’re going to need it to pay for what you’ve done.”
“I have no intention of paying a single knut,” he sneered. “This was the result of your errant wandwork and you know it.”
You fucking bastard.
“I do not, and never have, had an issue with errant wandwork,” she replied tersely. “I doubt you can say the same, Professor.” She looked him up and down pointedly, deliberately lingering on his crotch.
Snape rolled his eyes. “Such clumsy insinuations are most unbecoming of you, Miss Granger.”
“This entire mess was due to your ridiculous attempt to cover up a sex book. You clearly have some . . . issues.”
He barked a mirthless laugh. “Hardly. Rather, I considered the content of that particular publication to be inappropriate for a first year audience.”
“Really?” Hermione scuffed across the boards, crossing her arms when she was near enough to feel the ire radiating from him. “But you considered it appropriate to model disrespect, misogyny and bullying to them? How very gallant of you.”
“Misogyny? You think I hate women?”
“I haven’t yet managed to narrow down the field of people you obviously despise.” She peered down her nose at him. “I’m sure women are just one unfortunate subsection of society who fail to meet with your approval.”
He turned with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I haven’t time to indulge such foolish accusations. Good day, Miss Granger.”
“You should realise, Professor,” she raised her voice at his receding figure, “that when I lose my job here, I’ll be forced to give up my flat.”
“That’s not my problem.” He continued to stride toward the exit.
“After that I’ll disappear—leave this place for good. I’ve been untraceable before and I’ll do it again. There will be no one left to pay for that book except you. I’m sure Mr Dooley won’t have any trouble tracking you down at Hogwarts. You’ll have to pay the entire amount. As I said, I would check your bank account just to make sure. Mr Dooley is very . . . persistent.”
Professor Snape stopped still, his broad shoulders rigid, his back ramrod straight.
Dark locks of hair trailed over his pallid features as he turned. Hermione held her breath during his slow return, each footstep echoing in the meter of a malevolent metronome. He stood too close.
“Even if you didn’t lose your job, I doubt you could come up with the money,” he muttered darkly. “You don’t look like you have two knuts to rub together.”
Her attempt to execute a disdainful toss of her significant mane was less than successful since she hadn’t been able to afford to cut it, instead she made do with her best approximation of a Snape-ish sneer. “I’m tempted to speculate that your obsession with denigration and intimidation is due to the fact that you don’t have two nuts to rub together,” she replied, refusing to be intimidated. “However, it’s true that I’m not wealthy. I’m supporting my parents who live overseas and accommodation in this town can hardly be described as ‘inexpensive.’”
“Perhaps if you spent less money on the bottle, you might not be in such a predicament.”
“I’m in a predicament right now that will not benefit from further discussion of this kind. In fact, we both are. We need to come up with another copy of that book within a week or we are both completely fu . . . financially ruined.”
She was, of course, speaking for herself. He could be a complete moneybags, a veritable ‘galleon stallion.’ He certainly didn’t seem to spend a lot—if his uninspiring wardrobe was anything to go by.
His eyes, which had been downward focused, now slid up to hers, shifting from one of her defiant brown ones to the other.
“And how would you suggest we find another copy of an irreplaceable book?” he asked, his voice tight with contempt.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . book stores, libraries, museums . . . I’ll make a list. You can owl half and I’ll owl the other.”
“And if we fail to locate a copy?”
The question hung between them for an inordinately long period. She stared at the smoking cinders, worrying her bottom lip into a swollen lump by the time she answered,
“Then there won’t be another to compare it to.”
“Miss Granger, please attempt to infuse your statements with a little more sense,” he sighed irritably.
She leaned closer, aware that she was probably pickling him with her breath.
“If there are no other copies, then the exact content of the book is likely to be unknown. It can be re-written.”
“Re-written?” he snorted. “By whom?”
She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
His face was suddenly more animated that she could ever remember.
“That is the most ridiculous suggestion I have ever . . . “
Chapter 2: Une Affaire Accidentelle
Hermione felt each brick in the dungeon walls seeking to draw the heat from her as effectively as a Dementor’s kiss.
“Are you going to light the fire?” She drew her coat tighter, wishing she’d thought to bring a scarf.
Snape’s back was to her as he expeditiously stirred something yellow and oily with one hand and scribed broad flowing strokes on a piece of parchment with the other. He spent a full minute writing before he responded with a voice that only served to chill the room further.
“I don’t expect you to be staying long.”
Already annoyed, Hermione rolled her eyes. The urge to tap her foot was growing, and not just in an effort to drum up a little warmth. They’d only owled each other twice since the incident at the museum but it was already clear that they were extremely unlikely to find a replacement copy of ‘The Magic of Sex’. Even though she’d sent all of her requests and queries by over-night owl, it had taken another full day to receive responses.
“We’ve wasted enough time already. I suggest we get on with it.”
“On with it?” He arched a black brow, spearing the quill into its holder.
“We need to start writing immediately. Otherwise, we’ll have no chance of completing the book in time.”
The furrow in his brow deepened as he stalked over, leaning on the table before her.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss Granger. Although I deny any responsibility for what occurred, I have the one hundred galleons to cover my part of the replacement cost. Anything you choose to do from this point onward is none of my concern. Now kindly take your leave.”
He spun away from her on the final word, returning to the bench where he picked up a decanter of something green and luminous, flipping open the lid to sniff it.
Hermione sat in mute shock. It wasn’t what she’d expected at all. Although the writing option was, admittedly, quite extreme, she really didn’t think he’d have that sort of money lying around. And, unfortunately for him, her plans were very much his concern.
“As I explained earlier, I don’t have the money.”
He swirled the liquid and sniffed again, ignoring her.
“If we don’t find a replacement book, I’ll lose my job. Then I’ll have to leave this place. And when I do, I guarantee Mr Dooley will make you cough up my share. Are you willing to pay two hundred galleons to get me out of your office or will you help me write this thing so we can part ways forever and pretend it never happened?”
She could tell by his pursed lips that her words had reached him but he continued to act like she wasn’t there.
He turned his back and began writing again.
“Professor?” She’d risen from her seat and quietly crossed the room, touching him on the sleeve.
He caught her by the elbow, clamping it firmly between his vice-like fingers. “Don’t . . . touch me . . . again.”
As he glared at her, the rusty barbs of his voice and the wilful contempt in his black eyes hit home, piercing her with such tremulous uncertainty that it made her want to turn and run. But she couldn’t. Her livelihood. Her life as she knew it was at stake.
“I won’t touch you, Professor,” she responded, her voice surprisingly strong despite the burden of her galloping heart. “As long as you help me. We need to write this book.”
He released her elbow with a contemptuous sneer and turned away. “You write it.”
“There isn’t time. We’re going to have to split up the chapters as it is—half each. After all, this was your fault too, remember?”
He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over the bristles that had emerged like dusk upon his face
“If I had the money, I’d gladly pay to never see you again,” he muttered against his palm.
She didn’t doubt it. She had absolutely no desire to spend a second more in his presence either but there was nothing else for it.
“Bring that pile of parchment over,” he huffed, gesturing resignedly toward the far corner.
She did as instructed and he immediately used a wandless splitting spell to divide the long rolls into book-sized sheets before retrieving a bottle of ink from a nearby drawer.
“This ink isn’t permanent until a fixing spell is cast. It can be altered if required.” Making a low grunting sound in the back of his throat, he slid the bottle onto his desk, shaking his head as if it were taking all of his self-control to function. “Where do you want to start?” He flopped down in a chair and tossed the parchment onto the desk between them. “Fucking?”
For some reason, this was the first time Hermione had considered the reality of what they were about to do. That word coming from his mouth was like Neville Longbottom speaking Parseltongue. It shocked her. She wasn’t a prude by any stretch of the imagination. She’d had plenty of experience with sex. Most of it drunken, and a lot of it she couldn’t remember particularly well. But having her Potions Master, the man more likely to make her wet from pissing her pants than anything else, rolling out such words with ease, made her insides squirm like they were infested with Flobberworm larvae.
“Um . . . “ she hesitated.
“Come on,” he growled. “This was your stupid fucking idea.”
So it was going to be like that, was it? She snapped out of her trance and grabbed a chair, dragging it over until she was seated opposite him.
Gryffindor courage. Gryffindor courage. Gryffindor courage.
“Seduction,” she said.
He glared at her and muttered something under his breath before scrawling something at the top of the page.
She leaned forward. “The Magic of Seduction?”
Snape rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t you consider that a trite name like, ‘The Magic of Sex’ is going to be accompanied by similarly uninspiring chapter titles?”
Hermione shrugged. He was probably right. Although this was their book now and, in reality, they could write whatever the fuck they wanted.
“Next.” He looked at her with a bored expression.
“I’m not dictating the whole thing to you.”
He sighed. “Don’t you have anything to contribute? Or does getting pissed every night make seduction obsolete?”
She blinked. Well, he’d clearly ditched his usual eloquence in favour of coarse expediency.
“Au contraire,” she responded, deliberately attempting to highlight his lack of civility. “Not only don’t I get pissed every night, I actually have a few techniques that work surprisingly well.”
Looking decidedly unimpressed, he flicked the quill between his fingers. She felt her throat tighten self-consciously. If the last few minutes were anything to go by, this entire process was going to be excruciating.
Tossing her hair, she focused on the grey bricks above his head. She didn’t want to have to face his scrutiny.
“Sometimes I put a little something behind my ears.”
He snorted. And she could have sworn he muttered ‘your ankles’ but when her eyes snapped to his, he was looking down at the parchment, completely deadpan.
Cheeky fucking bastard. He was clearly determined to bust her metaphoric balls at every opportunity.
“I have a flirty smile I use. Sometimes I’ll do a bit of sexy dancing. Or even a smart quip can be enough if they have half a brain.”
She ventured a glance at him. He made a sucking sound between his teeth before tossing the quill down with a despondent flick. “Sounds enticing.”
Right, that does it.
“And what, pray tell, is your foolproof seduction technique, Professor? The gratuitous hair flick?”
His frown deepened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? So you’re denying that you deliberately flick your hair across your face to try to look sexy?”
“That’s preposterous.” He crossed his arms.
She nestled her chin deeper in her coat. “Everyone knows you do it.”
Stretching his neck to the side with a crack, he pursed his lips and fixed her with his disconcertingly black gaze. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I nearly died.”
She caught her breath and gulped audibly. “Yes, I did know that.”
He broke eye contact and picked up the quill. “This is coming a close second to that event. So if we can hurry the fuck up and get it over with, I would be most grateful.”
She almost choked. This was going to be impossible. But then she remembered, there was more at stake here. Much more than she had let on.
She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind of him.
“We need a narrative. A story. Or a series of short episodes; some sort of descriptive vignettes throughout the chapters.”
He tossed the quill down again in exasperation. “Isn’t this an instructional text?”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone with the name Walter P. Whiffle is hardly likely to be writing a book full of pornographic prose.”
“How do you know?”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What were you intending to do?” She leaned toward him. “Write a bunch of, 'Put part A in Part B and shake it around a bit until' . . . “
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She sat back abruptly. “It needs to be sexy to read.”
“Why? No one’s going to be reading it.”
“They might. And if they do, it needs to have something worth reading. You can put some recipes for potions at the end of each chapter and I’ll write up some relevant incantations to finish them off.”
His eyes remained closed.
She stared at him as he sat, unmoving. Perhaps he was overwhelmed. She tried to think of something encouraging to say.
“Your voice isn’t always grating.”
It took him a while to respond. When he did, he was almost tectonic in his inertia, his fingers slowly unfurling from his face like the fronds of a fern.
“I beg your pardon?” He fixed her with a withering look.
“Your voice. It could be . . . under the right circumstances . . . sort of . . . seductive.”
He stared at her so long she wondered if he had fallen under some sort of stasis charm.
“What was it you said? A narrative?”
He slid back in his seat and folded his arms, muttering a spell that caused the quill to jump up on its nib, writing automatically as he spoke,
“She came in from the rain. A luminous vision in white. Soaked to the skin. Her gaze drifted around the room, seeking nothing and enticing . . . everything, alighting on me and my fire—or at least the mantel I’d chosen to prop against in one . . . smouldering . . . corner. She approached, eyes holding mine, entranced and entrancing, arms sliding carelessly by her sides, wet windows of flesh clinging to her sheer clothing as it shifted across her body with each deliberate step.”
Hermione glanced at the empty fireplace. No, the sudden rise in temperature wasn’t coming from there.
“I didn’t move, forcing her to stand close to absorb the heat—that radiating from the fire, mingled with the slow burn through my perfectly positioned crotch. Only a breath from the damp hip that swayed. Closer. Closer. The flames were similarly captivated, leaning towards her translucent form, lapping at her, trying to . . . touch . . . her.”
Hermione felt the air escaping her like a slow leak. His deeply resonant voice wasn’t just seductive, it was positively hypnotic, daubing her in great solicitous dollops. She realised she was biting her lip. Hard.
“I shifted the cloak from my shoulders to hers. She took it without hesitation. As though it were expected. As though we weren’t strangers, brushing hands, skin tingling; each touch a delicate, moist exchange. She asked if I always offered strangers my possessions, her lusty gaze trickling down my chest; lips dilating in the sudden warmth, flooding with dew-dropped red. I told her I would usually offer a more . . . vigorous . . . warming solution. She followed my gaze as it traced the titillating trickle of one tiny water droplet down her cleavage. I imagined licking it, capturing it on the tip of my tongue before delving further. She swayed closer, brushing that hip against me before whispering, ‘I believe I’ll take you up on that offer.’”
Hermione looked down at her aching knuckles, bulging like popped corn from clutching her jacket so tightly.
She cleared her throat. “Um . . . yes, that’s . . . that’s the sort of thing . . . “
She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. “I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll go home now and . . . write the rest . . . the introduction and . . . my parts. When I’ve seen to my bits . . . some bits . . . and pieces I have to deal with, I’ll . . . I’ll finish it off . . . this off,” she stammered.
She jumped up from her seat. “Back tomorrow.” Her eyes flickered to his for a brief moment before she grabbed the parchment and bottle of magical ink and rushed for the door.
She didn’t see the corner of his mouth hitch in amusement as she stumbled through the shadowy opening and away.
Chapter 3: Un Amore Accidental
Hermione’s vibrator buzzed like a drunken bumblebee.
Why didn’t these things have low battery warnings? Not that she actually had any spare batteries in the flat. She’d have to buy some with her next pay. And forego some less essential items—like food.
She sighed deeply and tried to relax as she slid the jiggling head down her slit. She wanted this orgasm to be good, having delayed her indulgence for far longer than she, as an instant gratification kind of girl, thought physically possible.
Despite the constant throb between her legs, she’d managed to finish off her parts of the ‘Magic of Seduction’ chapter, insert some incantations on ‘seductive glamours and enhancements’, down four glasses of her alcoholic ginger beer homebrew and now spread herself on her bed trying to reconcile the fact that the man she hated only that morning now seemed to fill her mind so completely that she was having trouble trying to push him out so that she could get herself off.
She needed to conjure another fantasy. And quickly. Otherwise she would come with thoughts of him doing things to her and she didn’t need that particular association hanging over her during any future intensive and excruciating discussions with him about sex.
She ran through her usual fantasy fodder. Viktor? No, he never spoke in her fantasies because he was a bit thick and it was off-putting. For some reason she now had an intense desire for the subject of her fantasy to speak to her. Suggestively. In that low, rich . . . No Hermione! We said not him, didn’t we?
She shook her head, trying to focus as she rubbed the tip slowly around her clitoris. The buzzing seemed to be getting more sluggish, like the drunken bumblebee had stopped to pick up some heavy shopping. She’d better get on with it.
Ron? No, too Ron. The guy at the home brew shop? No, too hairy. She’d fucked him before and had such bad chafing afterwards, she’d walked around for a week looking like she’d crapped herself.
She trawled through her long list of casual flings. They all seemed a bit . . . mundane.
Dammit! She deserved a good orgasm. She’d held off deliberately to make sure of it. Just one fantasy about him? One tiny little one? And that would be the end of it. Definitely. Just to finish off his seduction scene. No one likes an unfinished story . . .
Hmmm. Wellll. Okay. Just this once. But no more after that. Otherwise it’ll fuck you up.
Hermione relaxed as a warm glow rolled across her skin. It seemed that her body had been more than ready to engage, even if her mind wasn’t.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. So where had the story left off? Oh yes, she’d forgotten her umbrella (very unlikely but she was prepared to let that slip for the sake of the fantasy) and walked into an establishment of some sort; let’s say a pub. She was wearing all white. Clearly it wasn’t her wedding day otherwise she wouldn’t be cracking on to some guy in the pub so she’d just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel or something.
Just let go of the compulsory authenticity otherwise we’ll be here all fucking night.
Okay. Moving right along. So she’s done the slinky walking in the ill-advised clothing and he’s standing near the fire with his crotch sticking out. It looks a little weird but, again, she’s prepared to allow some leeway on this. Then he gives her his cloak and says some sexy stuff and she says sexy stuff back and . . . cue fantasy. What . . . happens . . . next?
Hermione visualised him leaning over her. At the same time she had to ignore the laboured hum between her lips—the bumblebee must be having an asthma attack or something.
His elbow was resting casually on the mantel, a glass of firewhisky held between his long elegant fingers. Firewhisky. She hadn’t been able to afford that in such a long time. Maybe if he wasn’t going to finish it she could have just a sip . . . Hermione you have a big fucking problem if, with a vibrator up your twat, you're fantasising about the dregs of someone else’s imaginary whisky!
Okay, she’d leave the whisky. For now.
So where were they going to fuck? Were there rooms upstairs? Could they apparate away somewhere? She quite liked the fire and the pub atmosphere. Surely there must be a place close by? Ah, yes. Perfect! A strange little booth in the corner with a high partition on one side and a dark curtain running perpendicular. Even though it was totally unrealistic, straight out of some debaucherous brothel, it would do very nicely. Well done, me.
She indicated the booth with a coquettish tilt of her head and he responded with a sexy smirk. She couldn’t imagine him smiling; she doubted it’d ever happened. And so he placed the glass on the mantel and followed her. Couldn’t we re-do that bit?
Leave the fucking whisky and get on with it!
Hermione shifted position on the bed, tilting her pelvis so she could thrust the ailing shaft in a little more vigorously. If it wasn’t going to vibrate properly, she realised she was going to have to do most of the work herself.
Okay, so they’re in the booth, curtain drawn, and there’s a comfy looking seat, wide enough for two people lying down. Whew! So now what? Well it wasn’t like she was going to forget that ‘tongue down the cleavage’ line in a hurry. And, frankly, she was over the whole seduction thing. She needed to come. Grabbing him by the shirt-front she pulled him down to her breasts. His warm tongue slid out and snaked down that crevice.
She couldn’t believe she was already moaning, he’d hardly done anything. Actually, he’d literally done nothing, but she wasn’t willing to ruin the illusion, not now that she could finally feel the tension building inside her.
She wasn’t particularly obsessed with bodice-ripping but the nature of her borrowed clothing, and the fact that she wouldn’t have to pay for repairs with her measly income, meant she was open to it right now. She was, however, concerned about the noise they were going to make. She didn’t want any interruptions. Stopping, mid-thrust, she thought. A band. Yes. There’s a band playing somewhere nearby. That’ll cover up the sound. Oh for fuck’s sake, not Mexican! The jangling chords of ‘La Cucaracha’ immediately brought her orgasmic operation back to square one. Finally, she managed to replace it with some nondescript Irish reel.
By then, she was getting desperate. Placing his large hands on the front of her dress she implored him with hungry eyes and he did just want she wanted. Thank fuck!
Tearing open the sheer fabric, he revealed a white bra. No bra. No bra. Rather, he revealed her large jostling breasts which strained with erect peaks toward his lovely soft lips. Were they lovely? Possibly . . . just a little. His mouth closed over one nipple and sucked on it gently as his tongue flicked out to titillate the tip.
“That’s it,” she sighed.
She grasped her nipple with her free hand and mimicked the soft, languorous tugging of his mouth.
He lowered her onto the extremely comfortable (almost bed-like, in fact) cushions of the seat and proceeded to trail hot, wet kisses down her breasts to her abdomen.
“Just keep ripping,” she mumbled into the empty room.
He did. With an almighty, ear-splitting yank, he rent the fabric in two. And the band played on.
She was now fully exposed except for . . . No fucking knickers either . . . except for the neat strip of pubic hair (as if) adorning her pussy.
Continuing the kisses down over her perfectly maintained and impeccable smelling mound, he arrived at the apex to her lips. Pushing her legs apart, he spread her labia with his fingers and slid his tongue into her folds.
Hermione inhaled deeply through her nose as she arched against the bed.
He lapped at her clitoris, licking around and over the swollen nub. She brought her hand down, imagining she was touching his soft dark hair as he writhed over her. Then he licked lower, working the sensitive opening to her urethra before continuing further, plunging his tongue into her ravenous, and decidedly over-lubricated, cunt.
“Yes. Get in there,” she muttered through gritted teeth, thrusting the non-vibrating vibrator into her sodden slot as she rocked against his overwhelmingly adept muscle.
She visualised herself looking down at him as he devoured her most intimate offering like an ice-cream sandwich, feeling him wanting to taste her essence, drink her down, reaching as deeply into her clenching channel as he could.
Bringing her fingers to her clitoris, she rubbed it as she sped up her thrusts.
He was desperate for her. Desperate to make her come. And she wouldn’t let him down.
“Oh Gods, you sexy fucker!” she groaned as her pussy leapt off the bed, desperately trying to swallow the vibrator. Her heaving muscles sucked at it mercilessly for wave after wave of contractions before she collapsed into a shuddering mass of juice and flesh.
“Fffew.” The air seeped from her lungs.
It might have been a while coming but it was definitely worth it. And she was glad she’d made it a good one as she wouldn’t be fantasising about him again.
Yep. That’s the last time she’d be doing that.
She masturbated about him twice more during the night. She ditched the inanimate stick in favour of the tried and trusty hand crank, and was somewhat surprised to discover that she came very quickly both times, despite the fact that they hadn’t even fantasy fucked yet.
Then she had a lucid dream that inspired her to rise early and make a start on the next chapter, ‘The Magic of Foreplay.’
The dream had been so vivid that the words came easily to her. But when she’d finished, she only just had time for a quick shower, which she knew she needed since his proficient fucking nose would know exactly what she’d been up to. Multiple times. Before packing a bag and heading for the apparition point to Hogwarts. She was pleased with what she’d managed to get done but even more interested in how her co-author would . . . respond.
Chapter 4: Un asunto accidental
Despite the decidedly cool reception she’d received upon arriving at his office, she was surprised to discover that a fire was already crackling in the grate, casting a welcome glow over the sepulchral gloom that normally presided.
She sat in the seat she’d occupied the day before, trawling her gaze over the macabre collection of random entrails, offal and other organs in myriad jars stacked along his shelves. Another cupboard held a variety of viscous liquids, marrows, humors, bloods and biles, oily and fetid like a ghoul’s liquor cabinet.
Liquor. Hermione felt the agitation start as an unwelcome itch deep in her muscles.
He hadn’t been so much reserved as completely withdrawn. A single dip of his beak was all the acknowledgement she’d received, his attention occupied by a bundle of stalks which he proceeded to chop at his workbench with such intensity she wondered if he were imagining inflicting the decisive chops upon his present company.
Hermione wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Judging by the prickling chill that radiated from him, she guessed that he hadn’t indulged in a long evening of masturbation fantasies about her. Mutilation fantasies perhaps? Still, it wasn’t as though she was suddenly besotted with him. There had been way too much blighted history between them for her deep-set resentment to simply evaporate overnight. But, she had to admit, she was warming to him. At least parts of her were.
As the minutes ticked past on the mantel clock, it became abundantly clear that he had no intention of initiating conversation. She stewed in the awkward silence, broken only by the rhythmic chops that were becoming increasingly annoying—to the point that she now imagined taking his sanctimonious scalpel and shoving it up his —
“Surely you have somewhere more pressing to be?”
It was like yesterday had never happened. She wasn’t going to go over the same fucking explanation every time she saw him.
Huffing loudly, she pulled the sheaf of parchment from her bag.
“I have to go to work this afternoon but I’ve made a start on chapter two,” she said. “I’d like to check it with you.”
“I’ll read it later.” He didn’t look up from his chopping.
“No, I’ll read it to you now.”
“Your ears aren’t busy.”
His mouth clamped shut in a tight fissure of disapproval.
“The Magic of Foreplay,” she read, venturing a quick glance at his face which held all the enthusiasm of a fence post.
“He stood naked in the centre of the room. Body lithe and lean, taut with anticipation. She approached, naked hips swinging like a belly dancer, the last tantalising visage before the blindfold masked his eyes, heightening and honing his senses to keen, exquisite precision.”
Hermoine could hear the strain in her voice but she continued, determined to return the visual that he’d provided her with the day before.
“Her presence to him was simple and singular, the mere tip of a fingernail, a discriminating point that started at the apex of his shoulder before she trailed it down, caressing the contours of his musculature to the shadowed dimple of his elbow. His skin prickled. She was nowhere and everywhere.”
When her eyes flickered to his dark form, his broad shoulders appeared to be even more tense than usual.
“Suddenly his instep flared with the heat of her breath. Then the tickle of her tongue trickled upward from the arch of his sole, circling his ankle bone, to trail up the inside of his calf, sliding behind his knee before continuing up his inner thigh, a hot wet path that slithered groin-ward, homing in on the region that was beginning to throb with an intense, rising heat, rapidly becoming the sensory core of his being.”
She could feel herself starting to sweat and suddenly wished that the jolly fire in the grate would fuck off.
“She breathed lightly, a soft, fluttering trail from his inner thigh, across his twitching groin to his hip. He felt it as a crawling heat that seemed to radiate from his cock outward, desperate to capture her and draw her into the maelstrom that was brewing. She alighted with warm moist kisses on the curvature of his pelvis before moving slowly upward, her tongue flicking out to probe the straining muscles of his abdomen. She continued, placing kisses, tongue first, over the ridges of his ribcage until she reached his nipple.”
Hermione noted that his chopping had definitely become more erratic. The stalk slices didn’t look nearly as uniform.
“Her warm licks were suddenly replaced by a cooling blast which caused the tender nub of his nipple to tense and pucker before she slid away, rising to touch her tongue tip in the hollow just above his collar bone. Her wet muscle scored along the firm ridge toward his throat, his deep moan colliding with her lips, causing the vibrations of his larynx to buzz through them as she arrived at his fluttering pulse, sliding her nose up to the juncture with his jaw. Her fingers crawled up the back of his neck to tangle in his hair, pulling him forward before her mouth clamped onto his earlobe, sucking and teasing it with her tongue before she whispered into his ear, 'I want to suck your cock until you come down my throat.'”
Snape’s head suddenly jolted backwards and she heard a quiet intake of breath. Hermione smirked inwardly. She was definitely getting to him. She might not have the voice but she was pretty fucking confident she had the words.
“Suddenly she was gone. His entire body tingled from her ministrations, aching from both the loss of her touch and the inspirited anticipation of more to come. He hissed. She had returned. With ice.”
Hermione indulged in a dramatic pause. She was somewhat surprised to discover that she was quite enjoying her newfound power in words.
“As the hot cavern of her mouth closed over one nipple, she slicked the other with a slippery, ice-cold cube. The sensory dissonance set his nerves on edge and he only just managed to avoid reaching out and grabbing her. It was, after all, a condition of their arrangement. He hadn’t yet been given permission. She alternated between icing his nipples and licking them until they sang with an exquisite pain that was only surpassed by the forceful throbbing of his cock, that heat-seeking missile that was eagerly targeting her with its one good eye.”
He snorted. Although he tried to cover it up by rifling loudly through a collection of metal implements beside his chopping board.
“She locked her lips onto his, pushing the cube of ice from her mouth onto his tongue. She continued to lick it and as it melted they both drank down the warm broth of water and saliva. As she thrust her tongue deeper into him, she grasped his buttocks with both hands and slowly scored her fingernails across them, leaving welts. He groaned into her mouth. She pulled one cheek wide and slid the index finger of her other hand down until it sat at his puckered opening which undulated against the pad of her fingertip. Pushing deeper with her tongue, she prodded at his opening with her finger, stretching the tight ring of muscle as she forced his lips open around her plunging tongue.”
That was definitely a moan. Definitely. What else could it be? She glanced at him but he managed to look surprisingly deadpan. Time to bring out the big guns.
“Releasing him, she stepped back. Then began circling him, admiring her handiwork. His lips were flushed and swollen from their crushing exchange. His chest heaved like he had just gone three rounds in the ring. And she suspected from his response to her probing that he would be more than up for three rounds in the ring.”
Another quiet snort, barely smothered.
“His pale backside was scored by ten bold red lines. Her mark. Delicious. She finally stopped in front of his magnificent cock, straining for attention, the weeping head belying his hunger, salivating in preparation for her.”
He cleared his throat loudly and started dumping the stalks into a bowl with far less care than she could ever recall. She watched in surprise. He’d always admonished them for treating potion ingredients with such disdain.
“Stepping closer, she took him by the hand and brought his fingers to her mouth where she sucked one, and then two inside. The sensation of her warm slick walls suctioning onto his digits as her tongue slithered over and between them was the most erotic thing he had ever felt. That was until she suddenly pulled them out, lowered them and inserted them into her cunt.”
Snape sounded like he was choking. He finished with a loud cough and frowned deeply, staring intently at a piece of parchment on the bench as if held the answers to all of the mysteries of the wizarding world.
“She thrust his fingers into her lubricious slot, deeper and deeper, clenching her muscles so he could feel what she was going to do to his cock. ‘Feel that?’ she said. ‘My pussy is dripping for you. It’s desperate for your cock—to be punished by it for all of this teasing. It wants your cock to teach it a lesson. It wants to submit to you and take whatever it deserves.’ Then she pulled him from her with a wet slurp and brought his fingers back to her lips, licking her creamy juices from them with slow, languorous strokes until he was groaning again, his pre-cum dripping in viscous strings onto the floorboards. When he was clean, she leaned close and whispered to him, ‘Your turn.’”
Hermione placed the parchment on Snape’s desk and looked at him expectantly. He was furiously agitating a purple solution in a flask and, judging by the rhythmic thrusts of the stirring rod, he wasn’t thinking much about the solution.
He didn’t respond.
“I wouldn’t mind some feedback.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.
He pursed his lips, continuing to stir. “Forgive me if I’m too engrossed in my work to listen to what I imagine was highly inappropriate smut.”
Her eyebrows shot up. His ‘Seduction’ contribution had been highly erotic. Just because her language was more explicit, it didn’t mean they weren’t on a par. And if he had been too engrossed to listen, how could he judge? She stared at him hard, suspecting that her words had done to him exactly what his had done to her.
“What are you doing?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Can I see?”
Hermione stood and sauntered toward him. Oh look, a deceptive piece of brickwork on the floor. If one were clumsy, one could easily trip on that and . . .
Hermione lunged forward, falling into him. He only just managed to turn and catch her before she slammed into the bench.
And there it is! She wondered how he intended to explain the rock hard object amply filling his trousers. What could it be? A ladle? A pretty good sized ladle too. She’d have to adjust her fantasy to accommodate this new . . . discovery.
Barely concealing a smirk she slowly pushed back from him. “I’m sorry, Professor, I must have tripped.”
She went to turn away and he caught her by the wrist.
“That’s a very dangerous game you’re playing, Miss . . . Granger,” he growled, glaring at her.
She imagined herself looking up at him as the seductive ‘wet woman’ and murmuring, ‘Danger happens to be my middle name’ but fortunately realised that Hermione Danger Granger sounded fucking stupid.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she replied innocently.
He sneered down at her. “You may claim the conquest of my arousal after a few titillating words but having the courage to back that up with equivalent action is an entirely . . . different . . . thing.”
She felt consumed, drowning in the blackness of his eyes. “Perhaps you've forgotten," she breathed. "You are speaking to a Gryffindor."
He snorted derisively. “A Gryffindor’s idea of courage pales into insignificance compared to that of a Slytherin in such matters. There would be little more left of you than a bundle of wilted feathers after enduring the sustained solicitations of . . . a serpent.”
She maintained eye contact. Looking up at him fearlessly, defiantly.
Finally he shook his head before tossing her wrist aside with a sigh. “What do we have next?”
“Oral sex,” she emphasised each word.
He looked away but she could distinctly hear his muttered response, “Fuck.”
Chapter 5: Lan Sengaja Affair
Hermione couldn’t quite believe that Snape had agreed to meet her at her tiny flat—although she had complained a lot about his dank office and the fact that the unsavoury décor wasn’t conducive to quality creative outputs. Perhaps he wanted to curb the enthusiasm of the Hogwarts rumour mill which was, no doubt, feverishly churning after the mysterious visitations by the former 'Golden Girl' to the office of the dour Potions Master. Or maybe he just wanted to be able to leave when he was sick of her, as she was, admittedly, rather difficult to shift when she managed to get her teeth into something—so to speak.
Before leaving his office the previous afternoon, she’d forced him to decide upon the potion recipes he was going to include in the first chapters. It had involved a lot of huffing and eye-rolling on his part, but she was pleased with the choices. They would work well with the incantations she’d chosen. She’d also managed to pry from him the name of the surprising artist behind a number of delightful ink drawings of rare plants and flowers adorning his walls—none other than the old sourpuss, himself, Severus Snape.
Again, he’d reluctantly agreed, after much cajoling and pleading, that she could take copies of them for the book. Hermione considered that they’d provide a little cultured elegance to a publication which was at risk of appearing, perhaps with good reason, purely pornographic. And he’d also taught her the ‘dictation’ incantation to enable her to automatically pen her thoughts without having to physically write them. All in all it had been a good outcome even if he still appeared, despite the fact she’d managed to induce in him an erection harder than an Arithmancy N.E.W.T, to mostly hate her.
Now she was hastily throwing together a lunch of salad, buttered fresh ciabatta and marinated chicken. At 1.30 p.m. on the dot, there came a knock at the door, slow and loud, ominous as hell. Her heart leapt. Unfortunately not with pleasant anticipation but rather, rampant fear, knowing that a hyper-critical someone was about to enter her miserly flat with its rising damp and tatty furnishings and potentially tear her pitiful existence to shreds.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door and was startled to see him looking so out of place, elegantly dressed and perfectly poised against the chipped railing. His white collar seemed to sit a little higher than usual, curling tastefully against his throat; his black boots a little shinier. Or perhaps it was an illusion arising from the rarity with which he ventured beyond the gloom of the dungeons; in the light he cut quite a striking figure. His hand held a small tin of something. Biscuits?
“Am I to stand out here all day?”
She released the breath she’d been holding and stepped back, allowing him to move past her through the doorway. Once inside, it took little more than a flicker of his obsidian gaze to take in all that was her life. His expression, as usual, remained inscrutable.
“Lunch is nearly ready.” Hermione found herself wringing her hands nervously and quickly replaced them behind her back.
He simply nodded.
“Take a seat at the table if you like.”
She gestured to the small, round setting in the corner near the window. She’d realised earlier, as she set a second place on its worn surface, that it was the first time she’d had a guest over in nearly a year. Would he think her life as sad and sorry as she did? No doubt. Probably moreso.
Hurrying from the room, she returned a moment later with plates of chicken and bread, and the bowl of salad.
“Can I offer you a drink?” she asked.
His gaze slipped from the window back to her. “Water.”
“I’m having home brew—ginger beer. If you’d prefer?”
“It’s 1.30pm in the afternoon.”
“I know. I waited.”
That was clearly the wrong thing to say judging by the sneer of disgust that flickered across his face. She was only joking. Sort of. Fuck him and his judgements anyway! She’d pour herself an extra-large one. It was Saturday after all.
She returned from the kitchen with a tall glass of iced water for him and a glass tankard of ginger beer for herself. His eyes followed the tankard to the table before he picked up his water and took a gulp, watching her over the rim. He was clearly only just holding back on some derisive comment. She busied herself with serving up the food as though unaware that there might be an issue.
They ate in silence. Hermione pretended to be intently focused on her food but she snatched furtive glances, noting that he held his cutlery with a certain easy grace, similar to the way he held his wand. She had to admit that his hands had always fascinated her, even when she’d despised him as a student. He’d always moved so confidently and precisely but with a languid flair that suggested years of dedicated practice.
And now her masturbation fantasy was coming back to haunt her. She knew it had been a mistake. All she could think about were those elegant hands tearing apart that stupid wet dress and sliding down her naked body to her—
“Have you lived here long?”
She was shocked to hear what sounded like a normal question trip from his lips as he dabbed them delicately with one of her cheap paper napkins. Did he have to make everything look so utterly sub-standard in comparison?
“About three years,” she replied, taking a large mouthful of ginger beer, welcoming the familiar tingle on her tongue.
Now it was her turn to say something. Fuck. What could she ask him about? How he’d nearly died? That was hardly a topic for pleasant, meal-time conversation. His unrequited love for Lily Evans? Nope, that would go down like a sack of shit. Why he’d killed Dumbledore? Um, no.
“When did you start drawing?”
He took a sip of water before looking upward, remembering. “The ink drawings I started about twenty years ago but I’ve drawn for most of my life.”
Hermione imagined a young Severus consumed in his drawing, blocking out the world. Had he been lonely? Did he do it to combat the pain? She wondered why this insight into his likely past had never struck her before. Perhaps the selfishness of teenagehood meant that she had been more obsessed with his sour demeanour than in trying to understand him.
“Well, they’re beautiful,” she said, taking another swig.
His black eyes leapt to her face, scanning it. She wondered what he was looking for. Finally, he picked up his cutlery and gave a small shrug signifying what she imagined was either dismissal or grudging acceptance of her praise. Either way, he was clearly not practised or comfortable with receiving it.
Hermione drank more. With each mouthful she was feeling less awkward. It was part of the reason she enjoyed drinking. She felt she didn’t have to try as hard to be herself. Another sad admission. But there were plenty of those. She wanted to ask him what he meant by Gryffindor versus Slytherin courage in the domain of sex but she wasn’t quite that uninhibited. Yet.
“Do you think we’ll get it done in time?” she asked. “The book I mean.”
He looked condescendingly down his nose. What else could she have meant?
“We have to. I can’t afford to waste any more time on this.”
That irritated her. Clearly his time was far more important than hers. She had absolutely nothing better to do that to waste every waking moment writing smut for a sex book. Another gulp of ginger beer. Wow, that was quick. Empty already.
He shook his head, eyeing her warily.
She slid from her seat and made a quick trip back to the kitchen, returning with another full tankard.
He crumpled the napkin in his fist. Clearly she’d finally pushed him beyond his meagre reserves of tolerance.
“We have a lot to do today. You might want to slow down?”
“I’ll be fine,” she sniffed before taking another large swig.
He glared at her disapprovingly, his frown deepening with each emphatic chew. Then he made an exaggerated show of consulting his watch. Obviously he wasn’t planning to hang around longer than absolutely necessary.
They finished the remainder of their meal in silence and, by the end, Hermione had polished off the second tankard. A fuzzy warmth had settled into her muscles, which was lucky as she didn’t feel an ounce of warmth emanating from him. Collecting the dishes, she delivered them to the kitchen and returned with another full tankard. Before he could comment she flopped onto the nearby couch, only just managing to avoid spilling it down her front.
“We need to decide upon the content for the remaining chapters and work out who’s going to write them,” she announced.
Instead of joining her, he swivelled on his seat by the table and crossed his arms. She could barely make out his features which were silhouetted against the bold glare of the window.
“Only if you stop drinking.” His voice rumbled from the deep shadow of his mouth.
Hermione huffed. There was nothing she hated more than being told she was drinking too much. Her usual response was to suggest that the accuser 'fornicate off.' But there was a little more riding on this than casual friendship. She had lost some more serious friendships that way too but preferred not to think about that either.
“Only if you come and sit next to me.”
Shit! How suggestive had that sounded? Despite her slight inebriation, she was relatively sure she hadn’t consciously intended it to come out that way. She just didn’t want to spend the entire afternoon squinting at his bat-like profile. Subconsciously, however, she couldn’t be quite so sure of her intentions. Since their previous encounter, she hadn’t stopped ruminating over his ‘sustained solicitations of a serpent’ line, nor the ‘ladle’ she’d discovered in his trousers. These things were now, no doubt, so heavily encoded in her brain they were guiding her actions even without her being aware of them.
After a protracted silence, he slowly eased forward and pushed up onto his long legs, walking casually over before taking up a position at the opposite end of the couch. He swivelled slightly and propped his ankle on his other knee; one elbow leaned against the couch arm, supporting a thumb under his chiselled jaw and a stern finger across his upper lip, critically appraising her. Was that his intimidating look? If so, it was a fucking good one. She gazed down at the drink in her lap. Just one more tankard and she would be able to ignore just about all of him. Fuck.
Sliding the drink onto the small table beside her, she picked up a piece of parchment and quill, turning toward him but focusing on the paper in her lap.
“As I said yesterday, the next chapter is about oral sex. I’ll write a vignette from a female perspective and you can write one from a male perspective.”
She ventured a look at him.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he muttered.
Hermione only just supressed an eye roll. Did he have to make everything so impossibly difficult?
“What don’t you understand about oral sex?”
He tapped the finger on his upper lip before responding.
“I understand oral sex perfectly well. I’m wondering if I’m supposed to write from the perspective of a male getting a blow job or a male performing cunnilingus on a female or blowing another male?”
Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? Hermione was thrown. She hadn’t really thought about what the limits of the book should be. And his unwavering gaze was making her flustered.
“Just . . . just write whatever you like. Within reason.”
“And what would be considered outside of ‘reason’?”
Hermione swallowed hard. She was beginning to think that she might have made a mistake. She was convinced that he’d deliberately covered, and possibly even deliberately destroyed, the original copy of the book in the museum. But she no longer thought it was because he was some sort of prude. The ‘courage’ and ‘serpent’ lines, his ‘Magic of Seduction’ narrative and the current conversation all suggested that he might have far more sexual experience than she’d anticipated. She needed to be careful—otherwise she could imagine herself being pulled into some, potentially labyrinthine, exchange from which she may have trouble escaping.
“As long as it’s appropriate to the chapter heading, you can write about whatever you like.” She trotted the words out quickly, hoping it would put him off asking anything further.
His lips pouted slightly under his finger but, thankfully, he let it go.
“I figure there probably should be at least three chapters on sexual intercourse, maybe covering one or two positions in each.”
“And leaving out the other hundred or so?”
He looked genuinely perturbed.
How dare he look fucking perturbed! He hadn't even wanted to write the damn thing and now he expected over a hundred chapters? And who the hell had ever heard of one hundred fucking sex positions?
Hermione stared hard at the parchment in her lap. If he actually knew that many positions then she didn’t want to know about it, because she was only just managing to control herself and the thought of him doing her in a million different ways was just too enticing for her alcohol-fuelled brain to avoid. Her thoughts were more than ready to burn right through the middle of that fantasy—him ravaging her, throwing her naked body around like a rag-doll, pumping into her from every angle.
She heard a breathy groan and looked around. Oh fuck, it was her! Pull yourself together ‘Mione, you have an entire afternoon full of him to endure!
“We have only four days remaining so we’ll have to leave those for the next enthralling edition,” she stated drily.
He raised an eyebrow. Was that a hint of amusement glimmering in the depths of his eyes?
She quickly returned to the parchment. “And then I thought we could maybe do a sixty-nine chapter, something watery—bath or shower sex, and we might need to slot something in a bit earlier about hand jobs and fingering.”
“And that’s it?”
Hermione sighed, she just wanted her drink. “What else do you want?”
He didn’t answer. He just sat. Watching her. She suspected he knew exactly what he was doing. That he was doing it on purpose. He was fucking with her and not in the way she wanted. She wasn’t going there.
“You can write about whatever you want,” she said finally. “Within reason, outside of reason. Whatever. I don’t care. We just need to get on with it.”
Grabbing a bunch of parchment sheets from the pile, she held them out to him. He took them, his fingers casually brushing against hers, never breaking eye contact.
Stop making me want to come! She pleaded with him in her mind. That was only in her mind wasn’t it? She checked herself just to make sure.
“I'm going to start with oral sex,” she muttered.
“Why not?” he drawled, standing and beginning to unbutton his coat.
“Um . . . I mean . . . writing about oral sex,” she stammered.
His fingers stilled on his buttons. “It’s getting rather warm in here,” he said. “What did you think I was doing?”
“Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I knew that. I was just . . . um . . . I just . . . Oh, fuck it!”
She snatched up the tankard and threw the contents back. In under ten seconds it was gone.
He stared at her.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to sit next to me anymore,” she said, picking up her quill.
He undid the rest of his buttons before removing his coat and tossing it aside. Then he proceeded to flick open the top button of his shirt. She could see a smattering of dark, downy hairs peeking out from under his collar. Immediately her fantasy brain tucked that little detail away for future reference. Oh, Gods she was pathetic!
He resumed his seat on the couch without another word but she did notice his tongue flick out to wet his finger as he turned the first page. She saw it too well. Looming so large that it encompassed the entirety of her vision. This was going to be utterly excruciating. Torturous. And . . . fucking hot.
Chapter 6: Un Affare Primaticcia
He was doing something with his fingers. And his mouth. He was supposed to be writing but he kept stopping and staring out into space before she would notice two of his fingers twitching together or his thumb flicking in small rhythmic circles. And then there was his mouth. She could see his jaw working, ticking with minute twists and thrusts, his lips occasionally parting. And the tip of his tongue sliding in and out in tiny moist increments. Gods!
She scratched her head irritably. It was driving her crazy. She’d done the same thing when she was writing the previous chapter alone but was trying desperately hard not to do it now. She was, however, finding it far more difficult to pen the actions of her protagonists now that she couldn’t emulate them. She was also way overdue for another drink.
Did he know that he was doing it? Or was he so absorbed in his writing that he was totally unaware? Snape unaware? Fucking unlikely. She frowned down at her parchment, not wanting to give away how distracting she found him. Especially considering he didn’t seem to be suffering from the same preoccupation with her. He hadn’t looked at her once—not unless he had the peripheral vision of a halibut. Then again, that wasn’t something she could completely rule out. He’d certainly seemed to have an uncanny ability to know what was going on behind his back in Potions classes.
He was doing it again. This time his head was swaying slightly from side to side as his jaw gradually dropped. She felt a shiver threatening her spine and her finger began tapping testily against her quill, trying to release the mounting tension.
Focus Hermione! While she could still think reasonably clearly, she wanted to interrogate exactly what was going on here. So if he was aware of what he was doing. And if he was only pretending to be ignoring her. The question was, why?
She was pretty sure she knew the answer. He was trying to pay her back for his erection. It might seem rather petty but for someone who was clearly obsessed with power and domination, the loss of control that it signified was likely to have been irritating to say the least. He was playing with her, teasing her, trying to make her lose it. Well, he didn’t need to try particularly hard. She was quite adept at doing that herself. No doubt he considered her just another insufferable Gryffindor whose bravery was matched only by her naïveté; sexually inexperienced and totally out of her depth.
Well, she was happy to state unequivocally that she wasn’t, and never had been, intimidated by sex. She was, however, intimidated by him.
She stared at the words on her page, trying to will him and his agonising feline undulations from her mind. Her annoyance was also compounded by the fact that she was stuck. There were parts of her ‘Foreplay’ vignette that she now considered to be physically questionable, depending upon the heights of the people involved. The particular scene she was working on now had a few angles that she wasn’t sure about—it wasn’t something she’d ever done to a guy before. She tried to step it through. So if she were kneeling and he was standing and she had one hand on his balls and the other—
“Can I help you?”
She jumped. It was the first time he had spoken in over an hour.
“You seem to be intently focused upon my person.”
His person? Which fucking person? If he meant his cock then, yes, she had been staring at it, only for the sake of literary authenticity of course.
“I was visualising a slightly complicated dynamic for my current scene,” she said, managing to sound decidedly proper despite the alcohol.
His eyes rested upon her for a moment. Then he suddenly set his parchment and quill aside on the arm of the couch and stood, stretching his shoulders behind himself with a grunt before placing his hands on his hips.
“Go on then.”
She looked up at him. “Sorry?”
“I’m giving you an opportunity to work out your ‘complicated dynamics’.”
Was he serious? She looked at his face. Apparently. His slightly superior expression also told her that this was likely to be one of those Gryffindor/Slytherin bravery things. Without three drinks under her belt she might have declined but in her current state she absolutely couldn’t resist the opportunity to call his bluff. She tossed her parchment aside. Bring . . . it . . . on.
She could have sauntered over and slithered down his body as she imagined the ‘wet woman’ would have done but she couldn’t be fucked. Also, her current approach had the added bonus of being a little more off-putting. Sliding off the couch onto her knees, she shuffled awkwardly over until she was crouched with her face in front of his groin.
“Can you spread your legs a little further please?” she asked, looking up at him.
He flexed an eyebrow ever so slightly before acquiescing.
Hermione suddenly felt a flutter of anxiety. Being this close to his groin, looking up his tall, rigid body like some sort of monument to be conquered, she felt her fight or flight response suddenly kick in. Of course, out of those options, she would choose to fight. Taking a couple of slow breaths, she slid one hand under his crotch where she imagined his balls to be. And, as it turned out, that’s exactly where they were. Very much so. She didn’t exactly grab them but when her hand brushed the underside, he tensed visibly. Five points to Gryffindor.
Then she curled the other hand around behind him and brushed her fingertips down the rear seam of his trousers until she was reasonably sure she was near the cleft of his backside. She would have to angle her elbow a little differently if her character was going to stimulate him as deeply as her writing intended. Then she bobbed her head a little, imagining his cock in her mouth as she gently squeezed and pulled on his balls, thrusting a lubricated finger into his—
“I believe that should be sufficient,” he muttered, bending at the waist and rapidly stepping backward out of her reach.
She shrugged before rising to her feet, eyes fixed on him. “I think I had enough time to work it out. Just.”
“Do you have tea?” he asked suddenly, wiping a hand across his lips in a distracted gesture that made her want to smirk.
“Let me get some.” She pushed past him. “How do you have yours?”
No surprises there.
The close encounter with his cock had sobered her up way too much. She threw down a full tankard of ginger beer while she was waiting for the kettle to boil and brought another one back when she returned with his cup of tea. Judging by his expression he was clearly still uncomfortable with her drinking, but she’d been highly productive which was all that was really required of her so he couldn’t say a whole lot.
Hermione finished off the rest of her vignette relatively quickly after that and, as it turned out, the remainder of her glass of ginger beer.
As the warm, fuzziness hit again, her mind kept drifting back to the opportunity on her knees. Could she have taken it further? He had seemed rather uncomfortable despite his initial cockiness. Hadn’t he expected her to step up to the challenge? Possibly not. Or had that serpent of his begun to misbehave itself? Most probably. She wondered how just how sustained its solicitations got. Or was that just another bluff?
An enticing idea suddenly struck her. She would read to him—the very chapter that he’d inspired. Slowly. Letting the descriptions drip from her tongue. Watching him squirm. She looked over at the thoughtful crease of his brow as his hand glided across the page. She’d very much enjoy transforming that into a sexy furrow of agonised arousal. But not yet. Not before she got herself another drink. And made a start on a particularly racy idea she had for the next chapter.
He’d gone very quiet. And there were far less suggestive movements. Maybe she’d scared him off. Had he suddenly realised he wasn’t dealing with some sexual neophyte? Surely her ‘Foreplay’ chapter should have given him a tiny clue?
She ventured another glance at him. He was still writing intensively. Either he was really into oral sex or had started something new. Either way she didn’t mind. Writing was writing. This thing had to look like a fucking book after all. ‘The pamphlet of quasi-magical suggestiveness’ just wasn’t going to cut it. She knew that Mr Dooley would be all over it too, his small beady eyes jumping about behind the magnifying glass he carried with him at all times. She just hoped to hell he didn’t have a thorough knowledge of the original contents; otherwise they were fucked. Even more fucked than the protagonist in her next chapter. If that was possible.
Without the distraction of her couch-partner’s writhing and with the surprising focus that another glass of alcohol could bring her, she knocked off the, rather intense, vignette in record time before announcing she needed to visit the loo. As she passed through her bedroom on the way to her ensuite, she realised she was feeling decidedly light-headed. Maybe she’d had enough? She flopped down heavily onto the toilet seat before releasing the urinary equivalent of Niagara Falls. Nah. Just one more. Returning to the couch via the kitchen, she took up her position, another full glass teetering on her knee. Was it time to put Operation Serpent Seduction into action?
“Why don’t I provide you with some feedback?”
Despite her drunkenness, she could hear the amusement in his voice.
“She arrived ready to be punished,” he read from the parchment pages fanned out between his fingers.
It took her a moment to register. Oh, fuck! She hadn’t intended for him to see that chapter at all; planning instead to slip it into the book at the end. She’d written that one for herself. For her to enjoy. Alone.
“It’s not finished,” she blurted, sounding more desperate than she’d intended.
“I’ll just read what’s here then,” he said, settling back into his seat as if intending to enjoy the moment as much as possible.
Hermione took a huge gulp of her drink. Maybe if she passed out before the end it wouldn’t be so bad.
“She arrived ready to be punished,” he repeated, lifting his chin as if to free up his vocal cords. “She was dressed in the same clothes she’d worn to class that day, although it was now evening and the air of the classroom was positively brittle.” He glanced at her, his black eyes wandering over her face before continuing, “’Stand before my desk,’ he ordered. ‘Face me.”
Hermione closed her eyes. That’s exactly the way she’d imagined him saying it. Deep. Dominant. Dangerous.
“She shivered as she walked over to his desk, the back of her skirt brushing against the polished wood, her bare backside shuddering. She’d known it’d been foolish to take up her best friend’s dare to attend class without wearing underwear. He’d caught her, and now she was going to suffer the consequences.”
Hermione realised that it wasn’t particularly well written. Nor believable. But with each word expertly crafted and lacquered by his honeyed vocals, it may as well have been Shakespeare.
“He strolled forward, drawing closer with each languid stride until she was suddenly overwhelmed by both his menacing proximity and heady scent. His eyes bored into her. Darkness against darkness. Reaching out, he grasped the front of her shirt with both hands, tearing it open. Her pale breasts heaved between the tattered shards of cloth, erect nipples straining into the frigid air.”
Snape paused. Hermione buried her face in her glass, sucking up more of the drink, trying to appear unconcerned. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so desperate to drown herself, it might have been more convincing.
“‘And for some reason you didn’t think breasts this size needed support?’ He sneered down at her, his gaze scorching a trail of dark heat across her skin. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. ‘I saw it the moment you entered the classroom. The casual swing, bold and flirtatious. Did you really think you could get away with it?’ She quickly shook her head. It was true. She’d ditched her bra on purpose. She’d wanted him to notice. ‘If you’re so desperate for my attention, perhaps you should demonstrate just how . . . conspicuous they can be. Play with them. I want them ripe . . . and glistening.’”
Hermione really didn’t need to hear the words ‘ripe’ and ‘glistening’ roll off his tongue at that point. She felt completely paralysed. Had her pussy actually welded itself to the couch?
“She grasped her nipples between her fingertips and tugged them, pulling them into long, pink tongues of flesh. ‘Wet them,’ he instructed, hovering over her. She sucked her finger and thumb into her mouth, swirling her tongue around each digit before bringing them down to slick the ripe tips of her nipples, sliding them around each point until they glimmered like rose-coloured beacons in the firelight. ‘Not . . . quite . . . enough.’ He leaned into her further until she had to throw her hands backwards to stop herself from toppling onto the desk. He slid down her prickling skin, running his soft lips along the side of her neck, skimming over her breast before capturing one throbbing nipple in his mouth.”
Hermione closed her eyes. She couldn’t risk looking at him. It was too much. His voice. His smell. Her poorly chosen chapter topic.
“He sucked on the firm bud, plying it vigorously with his tongue until she was keening her desire to the darkened ceiling. Releasing her nipple with a wet ‘pop’, he grasped her jaw between his fingers and tilted her face to his. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he growled. Stepping back, he grasped his belt and released it with a quick yank before pulling open his fly. His rock hard erection bounced free. ‘I’ve wanted to ram my cock into your know-it-all mouth for a long time now,” he rumbled, stroking his thick shaft. ‘Let’s see you finally put that insufferable hole to good use.’”
She didn’t need to open to eyes to know he was looking at her. Eyes closed. Eyes closed. Keep them fucking closed!
“He pushed her down roughly to her knees before grasping a handful of her thick hair. ‘Tongue out,’ he instructed. She extended her quivering pink muscle and he tilted his hips forward, painting a trail of pre-cum down the centre.”
Snape’s voice suddenly changed. “I think I might have read enough to generate some . . . feedback.”
She couldn’t prevent her head from shaking ‘no’ even if she’d wanted to. “Keep going.” Her drunken fantasy brain was desperate to hear more. To have him finish it off. Finish her off . . .
There was a long pause before he resumed.
“He wasn’t rough but his size and the depth of his intrusions were enough to keep her flustered, her nostrils flaring as she tried to cope with his intense thrusting. He held her head firmly with both hands as he slid his cock into her, stretching her, finding her limits. When he discovered the point at which she could breathe easily but still had a sizeable portion of his meat inside her, he stopped. ‘Suck me. And use your tongue. Gently. That’s it.’ His head tipped back and he released a deep groan as she swirled her tongue around his throbbing helmet, the way she’d imagined doing to him hundreds of times before. His hips ground slowly into her. ‘I’m finding your mouth more and more agreeable,’ he breathed. ‘But you're going to find me coming down your throat if we don’t get onto your punishment soon.’ He pulled out and lifted her up all in one motion. ‘Your alluring upper lips might have won me over but I haven’t forgotten the flagrant disrespect that your pussy showed me today. Your cunt needs to be taught a serious lesson.’”
Hermione heard Snape inhale deeply through his nose. Clearly her story was taking a toll on him too.
“Spinning her around, he pushed her roughly over his desk before flipping up her skirt to reveal her bare backside. Using one boot, he pushed her feet apart as he slid two fingers into her sopping channel. ‘I didn’t imagine this particular opening would require much preparation,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Judging by the fact that it was winking at me throughout my lecture, deliberately distracting me with its glaze of blatant desire.”
Snape swallowed audibly.
“Now I’m going to fuck that pussy until it wishes it’d never had the audacity to try to distract me in class. I’m going to make it swallow everything I’ve got. And I don’t want to hear a squeak.’”
Flabbergasted. That’s the word she should have used. He was going to leave it flabbergasted—a totally shocked pussy.
“There was no chance of her remaining quiet. She cried out as soon as he entered, her pussy straining to accommodate the size and speed of his unyielding cock. He gave a shuddering moan as he thrust deeply into her slot. ‘It’s so fucking hot and . . . tight . . .’ he grunted. As he curled his fingers into her hair, she curled hers around the edges of the desk, clinging on as he gained momentum, pumping viciously, bottoming out inside her with each thrust. ‘This is what happens to undisciplined and disrespectful cunts. They get fucked into subservience. Do you understand?’ She nodded vigorously, gasping at the swelling tension inside her. ‘Are you going to reveal this pussy to me again in class?’ She shook her head, although the answer was, of course, one hundred percent ‘yes’—every day if she could get away with it. ‘Good. To show I have no hard feelings, I’m willing to give it a hand.’ He untangled his fingers from her hair and slid them down to skim the front of her thigh before inserting them between her swollen lips, rubbing her clitoris. Her high pitched moans echoed off the classroom walls as he massaged her nub more vigorously, continuing to piston his rigid shaft into her.”
Snape paused and swallowed again. Hermione was breathing rapidly. She felt ready to come on the spot.
“She was being driven over the edge—pushed beyond the point of no return. With a hoarse cry, she felt the muscles of her core suddenly explode around his plunging cock. Fireworks peppered her vision as she writhed and shuddered against the hard wood. He was only two thrusts behind, releasing a guttural roar as his balls squeezed, pumping jets of warm seed deep inside her clenching channel. Her pussy sucked at him hungrily, swallowing everything he gave her, as instructed. His thrusts gradually diminished until she went slack, lying prone against the desk, drawing ragged breaths through her swollen lips. He rubbed her buttocks appreciatively as he withdrew his glistening member. ‘Now don’t do it again,’ he growled. ‘I won’t,’ she murmured in response. ‘Not until next time.’”
The room was plunged into silence. She wasn’t sure how long they sat there because she was drunk and her eyes were closed. When she finally cracked them open he was frowning at her.
“Is this intended to depict some form of role play?” he asked, giving the pages a small flick.
“Mmmmm . . . Yep.”
“It isn’t is it?”
“Is this one of your fantasies, Miss Granger?”
She needed him to stop talking. His voice was rapidly becoming the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever encountered.
She groaned, feeling that her snatch might suddenly explode out of her zipper and attack him like some sort of killer Venus flytrap. Eating him, cock first. Devouring him until—
“I didn’t say anything,” Hermione mumbled.
“You were muttering something. It sounded like, ‘Yum, yum, yum.’”
“Was I? Oh . . . I meant . . . come . . . come . . . No I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean anything . . . I think I might be hungry . . . I . . . I need to go to the bathroom. Again. To do . . . something.”
She staggered off.
Hermione sat on the toilet with her jeans and knickers pooled around her ankles. She was having trouble getting herself off. There was something missing. She was more than aware of what it was but there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing that wouldn’t involve issues of consent, anyway. Finally she gave up and returned to the lounge room, leaning drunkenly against the door frame.
She scanned the room as if not quite sure of her surroundings before squinting over at the couch. There were two Snapes. Two blurry, fuzzy wuzzy Snapes. And now three. She giggled. What would she do with three Snapes? One in the front, one in the back and one in her gob. That would work.
“Do you think so?” He stared at her.
Oh fuck! She was thinking out loud again!
She lurched forward for a few erratic strides before tripping and falling into his lap. Blinking, she tried to focus on his face but it was too close so she simply buried her own face in his chest before releasing a muffled slur. “I need to tell you something.”
Chapter 7: An Affair Aksidentale
Hermione’s head felt like there was a Boggart living in it. And her mouth tasted like the bottom of a bird cage. Either a flock of ferocious owls had hit her multiple times about the head and then crapped in her mouth, or she was extremely hungover. Again.
She tried to roll over but there was something stopping her. Something long and hard. The back of the couch. Why wasn’t she in her bed? Where had this strange blanket come from? And, most disturbingly, why was she completely naked?
Vague memories from the previous day began seeping like sewer water into the aching mess of her brain. And every one added a new surge of revulsion to her, already pretty dismal, self-image. What the fuck had she been thinking? Nothing. That was the problem. She hadn’t been thinking at all. To get that shit-faced in front of her old Potions Professor was beyond ridiculous. And now she remembered sitting on his lap. Oh, fuck! What had happened after that? Is that why she was naked? Had they done something? Where was he? She could see enough of her bed through the open door to know he wasn’t in there. Why would he be?
Hermione groaned, dragging a hand down her face. She kept visualising herself on his lap, her forehead pressed, maybe even rubbing, against the soft material of his white shirt. But that’s where her memory stopped. Every time she tried to push her mind further, she drew a blank. Obviously she’d been just too pissed for anything concrete to coalesce.
She desperately wanted to know what had transpired between them. Had he pushed her off his lap and stormed out? Why then was she naked? Had they fucked? Maybe? It wouldn’t have taken anything for him to persuade her. Maybe she’d started it by ramming her tongue down his throat.
She stared at the cracks in the ceiling, running her hands over the silky material of the foreign blanket. The tips of her fingers brushed against a raised section on the corner and she lifted it up to look at the careful embroidery—SS. SS? Severus Snape? Why would anyone carry around a monogrammed blanket? For when you have a blanket emergency but you just don’t trust others not to steal it?
It took a surprisingly long time to work out that it was, in fact, his transfigured handkerchief. The silken weave had somehow been magically enhanced so that it was reasonably thick but remained soft to the touch. It felt positively luxurious against her naked skin and she somehow considered herself undeserving of it as her hair was a veritable rat’s nest, her breath came straight from a troll’s bottom, and her stomach kept threatening to cover the delicious fabric in what she could only describe as 'essence of rancid ginger.'
Rolling onto her side, she scanned the floor for clues. Nope, no casually flung underclothes there. That ruled out some sort of seductive strip-tease as the source of her nakedness. Although she suspected that she would have only been capable of a horribly dysrhythmic stagger—about as erotic as a lap dance from Filch.
Her eyes settled upon the disordered pile of parchment on the ground. She snorted. That was supposed to be a credible alternative to a properly published book was it? What a fucking joke. They were fucked. She picked up the pages and scanned the top few. It took a few confusing moments for her to work out exactly what she was reading but when it finally came together, her heart and stomach surged together so forcefully that she had to swallow hard to keep from being sick. Gods!
The only way she could explain it was that Snape must have cast the ‘Dictation’ spell while she was on the toilet trying to . . . She quickly pushed her pathetic masturbation attempt from her mind. And when she’d come back and taken him in her full frontal tackle, it had simply continued to transcribe their conversation. The whole lot seemed to have been captured, both his words and hers, all jumbled together in one long paragraph. But she thought she could work out most of it—
“Do you think so?” – Who’d said that? Was it Snape?
“I need to tell you something.” – That must have been her. She couldn’t imagine him wanting to tell her anything. But, then again, she couldn’t think what she might’ve needed to tell him. Nothing obvious sprang to mind.
“What is it?” – Snape again.
“When we were at school, Ron asked everyone who they thought was the biggest cunt out of Voldemort, Umbridge and you. And guess who everyone voted for?”
Oh my fucking God! Why had she told him that?
“No idea.” – She could just imagine him saying it. Dry, unimpressed, absolutely aware of the answer.
“Well, everyone actually voted that you were the biggest cunt. I mean, not the most evil, or anything. Just, you know, general cuntiness—like detentions and taking points off people and stuff.”
“Charming . . . I think I’ll be off.” – Him. Trying to push her off his lap, no doubt.
“No, no, don’t! I have something else to tell you . . . something more important.”
“I find it difficult to believe there could be anything I need to hear more urgently than the previous enthralling tale.” – His sarcasm was palpable, even in the reading.
Hermione cringed, hardly able to bear the thought of continuing. What other insane shit had come out of her mouth?
“I wanted to tell you why this book is so important to me . . . Why I needed to do it.”
Oh shit, she hadn’t told him that had she?
“It’s because of my parents.”
“You’ve already shared that piece of information. You said you were supporting them overseas.” – She could visualise the terse exchange. He clearly still wanted to get away.
“Yes . . . but it’s more than that. I . . . I had to take away their memories. All the ones about me. To protect them during the raids. And then they went away . . . A long, long way away. To Australia. The thing is . . . I got them a house there . . . somewhere nice . . . somewhere I would want to live—you know, if I had a choice. Near the sea . . . They have a view of it . . . It’s pretty . . . so pretty . . . Do you like the sea?”
Hermione could see where her addled brain had started to drift off.
“I believe you were telling me about your parents.” – Snape.
“Um, anyway, they think they own it . . . they think that the house is theirs. It was only ever supposed to be short term . . . you know, temporary. So I paid the rent. I’ve never made a lot of money . . . and so I’ve had to cover the gap by selling stuff . . . their things . . . my things too. But it’s been nearly five years now and there’s nothing left. It’s all gone . . . everything except our house.”
Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes reading her own pathetic story.
“Here. Take this.” – Was he giving her something? The handkerchief?
“And . . . It’s like if I sell our house. It will be the end. They can never return. They’ll have nothing to come back to.”
There were more garbled words. She was obviously crying.
“Don’t they have jobs?” – He’d asked the obvious question.
“Well, over here they were both dentists. Everyone knows dentists charge like wounded bulls—so obviously we had plenty of money . . . But when I took away their memories, the memories of me were all tangled up with everything else . . . They both got into dentistry pretty late and I’d always sit with them when I was young and read their books when they studied or go to the surgery and play . . . I’ve always really loved reading . . . Do you like books?”
“You were explaining about their work?” – Snape prompted her again.
“Oh, yeah, so I couldn’t remove their memories of me without taking away a lot of the other stuff . . . their, you know, professional knowledge. And who wants to go to a dentist with only half the training? Not me . . . So they don’t remember any of it . . . Now my father just does odd jobs and my mother . . . “
“She’s suffered a lot from . . . depression. She knows something is missing—someone is missing from her life. I’ve visited . . . secretly. I know she feels it . . . in her heart or her mind or whatever . . . where I used to be . . . Even if she doesn’t know me. And, the thing is, this mess, this whole fucking thing . . . it’s my fault. Her depression . . . Her . . . pain.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
Hermione blinked through her tears, shocked by how supportive Snape sounded.
“I can. It’s all my fault . . . I could have brought them back . . . I could have done it years ago but I was too ashamed . . . I didn’t want them to see me like this . . . I didn’t want them coming back to this . . . to disappointment. I was destined for so much more . . . I was supposed to be the smartest witch of my age . . . But now I’m nothing. I have nothing. I’m just . . . shit.”
More crying. In fact, the rest of the page was filled with it.
Hermione’s head was thumping even more intensely. She wiped her nose on the blanket. It was just a big hanky after all. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she rested both fists against her closed eyes. Well that feral fucking cat was now out of the pathetic little bag she’d kept it in all these years. And of all of the people to choose to share her most devastating secret with, she’d chosen Snape, a man whom, as far as she could tell, only tolerated her for the purposes of belittling her. Way to go ‘Mione. That’s the sort of fucking dumb shit you do when you get pissed.
After a few more minutes of wallowing, Hermione gathered up the parchment sheets and went to toss them back onto the ground when she recognised Snape’s handwriting on the back pages. Pulling them free, she began to read—
Our love was forbidden. And the forest knew it. Each frond and blade conspired with us, guiding us, escorting our fumbling feet to that sacred space, hidden deeply, defiantly within its heart.
Hermione frowned in confusion. Since when was this book about love?
She took my hands in the pearly light. Magical blooms like dew drops lit our way, the sweat on our palms savoured within our intimate touch, which promised, again, to be the briefest of exquisite unions. Our destination was a mere fluke of magic—a confluence of natural charms that could protect us from all that would seek to destroy that audacious spark, burning unsanctioned within our breasts.
In that glow, her skin diaphanous, her smile enigmatic, she was the most alluring of creatures. And if she hadn’t suddenly dragged me down, I might have fallen onto the bed of moss—less from exhaustion than from the almost unfathomable knowledge that she was now mine.
Hermione stared at the handwriting. Was this really fucking Snape?
In kissing we were not only lovers, but matching parts, a perfectly synergetic coupling that spurned a lifetime of loneliness in that moment. We drank each other down in heady gulps, fine wine from a shared glass until neither our slithering hands nor our succulent mouths could assure satiety.
When she opened herself to me, petals glistening with warm desire, I drank even more deeply, exchanging my swelling moans for silky mouthfuls of her honeyed nectar.
Hermione inhaled deeply. Even she knew what that meant.
Clutching fingers caroused in earnest waves through my hair, scouring my neck in needy tendrils that drew me upward, flesh crawling over flesh, slickly aligning until the soulful nimbus of her eyes was reflected within my own. Her warmth grazed over mine, grasping and guiding until our cores were set, softly pulsing in anticipation of a fervent filling, a promise, once painful, now to be fulfilled.
Her shuddering sigh against my face, redolent with relief, told me as much as her wilfully undulating body—of unshackled restraint, of unburdened release. Like a possession, she made her desire known, her cries slicing through the night like the wings of an owl. And only the stars could bear witness—we were, after all, protected—safe in this sanctuary.
Her liquid lust might have drowned me and left me finally content—perfectly at peace. But I sought to match her impassioned incursions with my own, burying myself so completely that I could not expect to return whole. And then we were there, together, exchanging souls in fragile fragments, stretching time around our merging, ardent, exquisite, a release that would stay with us and within us for days. And perhaps, with the will of this magical place, a lifetime.
Hermione let out a long breath. She felt as though she’d just witnessed something she shouldn’t have. Something private. He’d written it for the book so it was fair game, wasn’t it?
Chewing on her bottom lip, she scanned his words again. They might have been quite lovely but they were pretty fucking euphemistic, not a ‘cunt’ in sight. She finally sighed with grudging acceptance of the impact that his exquisite words had had on her. Her narratives now seemed distant, objectified, even sordid in comparison. His were warm, honest, vulnerable. She also noted that his were written in first person, whilst hers were in third person. Why the difference? It was as though he was writing without fear. Or perhaps he was afraid but did it anyway. Had she misjudged him again? Was he really the increasingly sexy asshole she’d assumed these past few days or was he far more vulnerable than that? She couldn’t imagine Snape as a romantic, let alone in love. So who was the woman in his narratives? Was it someone she knew?
Hermione flopped her head listlessly to the side, staring at the cracks in the vinyl couch. It was probably just the hangover but she felt a strange twinge of something. Jealousy? Come on ‘Mione, you clearly wouldn’t mind fucking him but, really, that’s all you could possibly want from a man like that. Nothing more. Nothing like . . .
She gasped and turned her head too quickly. He was standing in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him come in at all.
“I took the opportunity to purchase some items for breakfast,” he said, placing a bag on the table.
Hermione winced and closed her eyes. “I don’t need your charity.”
“I need to eat even if you consider an entirely liquid diet sufficient. Your cupboards were empty,” he snapped.
Hermione felt a wave of nausea hit her at the mention of a ‘liquid diet’. She took a few deep breaths, waiting for it to pass. Then she decided to do it. As excruciating as it was, she had to know how things had ended up.
Peeking under the hanky blanket at her nakedness she said. “Did we actually . . . do . . . anything?”
“You vomited all over both of us and I had to clean it up.”
“Your clothes are in the washing machine—Scourgify wasn’t quite up to the job. You sat in the shower cubicle for sufficient time to remove most of the rest. I didn’t want to return you to your bed in case there was a repeat performance. And I had to return to my chambers smelling worse than a troll’s bowel movement. But you made me promise to return this morning. And so I have.”
Hermione felt like crying. Another sterling performance to add to the rest. She certainly was an opportunist, never missing a chance to make a massive dickhead out of herself.
“I’ll make breakfast,” he said. “But there’s something we need to deal with first.”
She cracked her eyes open and saw that he held in his hand the small tin that he’d arrived with the previous day.
“I couldn’t,” she moaned. “I just couldn’t stomach a biscuit.”
His mouth was set in a grim line.
“These are not biscuits. But perhaps when you see them, you’ll wish they were.”
Chapter 8: Hazarda Afero
“Am I supposed to guess what’s in there?”
Hermione swivelled around awkwardly on the couch until she was sitting upright. She was careful to keep the hanky blanket clutched tightly to her chest, although she wasn’t quite sure why she bothered as he’d already seen her sprawled naked on the floor of her shower, covered in vomit. There couldn’t be a whole lot of feminine mystique left to preserve after that.
Snape took a dining chair and brought it over until he was seated before her. She realised this was the first evidence she’d observed of him possessing more than one set of clothing. There wasn’t even a hint of troll bowel-movement about him. Instead, what drifted forth was the usual blend of peppermint and sandalwood, both fresh and masculine. She doubted the aroma she contributed to the increasingly turbid air between them was quite as pleasant. As he stretched his long legs out, resting the tin on his thighs, the immaculate cut of his clothing had her self-consciously dragging her fingers through her knotted locks, wishing she’d crawled off the couch earlier to scrape off some of the rankness.
Intimidated by his proximity and the intensity of his gaze, Hermione eyed the tin nervously. This was all a bit serious wasn’t it?
Without a word he unscrewed the lid and handed it to her. Inside were five small phials.
It wasn’t a particularly funny joke—a fact unequivocally verified by Snape’s severe expression.
“One is a Sobriety potion.” Snape’s eyes didn’t leave hers.
Hermione stared at him before frowning. “It’s a bit late for that don’t you think? You might have given it to me last night.”
“Would you have taken it?”
Her response was immediate, “No.”
Snape inclined his head. He’d clearly been more than aware of that.
“The second is a hangover cure.”
Hermione chewed her lip, regarding the collection as it rattled slightly on her lap. Was she trembling?
“They rest are detoxification potions. They’ll absorb the alcohol from your system with little withdrawal. They’re designed to be taken over the course of three days.”
Hermione’s eyes gradually returned to his as realisation dawned upon her.
“You brought these with you yesterday.”
He paused before responding, “Yes.”
“Why would you bring a collection of hangover potions to someone’s house for lunch?”
He clasped his hands together but didn’t respond.
Hermione set the tin beside her on the couch before fixing him with a glare. “With all due respect, Professor, but don’t you think that’s a bit fucking rude? I mean, is that your usual response when someone invites you to their house? I admit that this might be a relatively modest abode compared with what you’re used to but this is my home. I’ve invited you here, cooked you lunch using money I couldn’t really spare and you turn up with nothing but a conceited sneer and a tin of fucking hangover potions? I was fucking sober when you arrived!”
He remained absolutely still, returning her gaze.
“What if I’d opened this delightful gift as soon as you’d arrived?”
“I’d have informed you that it was to be opened later.”
“And you just fucking assumed that I would need them?”
That same inscrutable look, head slightly tilted as if she were answering her own questions. She was fucking furious.
“How insulting were you actually intending to be? Turning up here with a solution to some supposed problem—as though I’d asked you to help me. I didn’t ask you for anything!”
He sat back in his seat, apparently unconcerned by her mounting rage.
She picked up the tin and shoved it back at him. “As I said before. I don’t need your fucking charity. I have been perfectly fine without it all these years and I’ll continue to muddle along without it into the future, thank you very much.”
He simply sat with the tin in his hand, watching her.
She continued to seethe, her headache worsening by the second.
“What if you invited me to lunch and I turned up with a gift especially for you? Tied up with a big bow.”
He appraised her with a look of such considered patience that it pissed her off even more.
“And when I arrived you said, ‘Miss Granger, how lovely of you to be so considerate, what do we have here?’ and I said, ‘Well actually that’s something for later’. And you said, ‘Really? What could you have prepared that would be so appropriate for this occasion?’, and I said, ‘Well Professor, it’s an anti-cunt potion that I’ve been working on. I just thought that when you start being too much of a cunt, as is clearly inevitable, you might want to take it.’ How do you think that would go down?”
He remained silent as she clenched the blanket between her fists, on the verge of tears.
“Are you finished?”
She swallowed hard before dropping her forehead to her knees. “Yes.” Her voice was a muffled sob.
“My father was an alcoholic.” His voice was low and tight. “I grew up with his moods. He vacillated daily between apathy and violence with little in between. I despised him for his lack of control and the impact that his drinking had on us all. But in the end, I didn’t blame him for the way he was, he was under a curse of sorts. Still, I wished that someone would help him. A friend. A relative. That they would turn up one day with a gift like this. But there was no one. At least no one ever concerned enough about him, or about us, to do it. I promised myself then that if I ever had the opportunity to do this for someone else I would.”
Hermione let the tears come. The shame and embarrassment were bad enough. The truth of her situation was worse. But his genuine concern seemed to shatter the remaining barriers of denial she’d built around herself to cope. It stole her breath away.
It’s not personal ‘Mione, she told herself as she gasped into her knees. He’s fulfilling a promise he made to himself as a child. She wasn’t sure if that thought made her feel better or worse. Was she just some pathetic cause he’d suddenly adopted to try to make up for his miserable childhood?
In the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Her telling of her own circumstances, now transcribed on the parchment at her feet, was evidence enough that her life couldn’t get much worse.
Rubbing her hands over her face, imagining that she looked more like a Harpy Hag than a human being at that point, she fixed her watery gaze upon him.
“Which is the hangover cure?”
She opened the small vial with trembling fingers and threw it back in one gulp. At least that was something she was good at.
“I’m guessing the detox is red?”
He looked at her for a long moment before nodding. “However, you need to be aware that if and when you decide to take them, there will be consequences. You are unlikely to continue to crave alcohol and the withdrawal effects should be minimal as these have been brewed from the purest of ingredients. But alcohol is a sedative, a depressant. When you relinquish its effects, the world can become overwhelming. The sensations and emotions that have been dampened all this time will return at heightened levels.”
Hermione took in his concerned frown, the long fingers interlaced in his lap.
She wiped her nose on the blanket, then tried to gather together what tenuous threads of dignity might remain. “I realise now that you had nothing to gain from this offer except a mouthful of abuse. And I apologise to you for that. However, I still think you could have handled things a little more discreetly.”
He shrugged. “Alcoholics prefer denial. They’ll keep the truth hidden at all costs to avoid being confronted with the reality of their problems. And I see no value in reinforcing the delusion. That’s why I chose to be upfront about it. I refuse to engage in that sort of subterfuge.”
Fine words from a former fucking spy.
Hermione nodded wearily. She hated being called an alcoholic. It was a word that should be reserved for the old men in pubs propping up bar stools, not the daughter of dentists, the brightest witch of her age.
Still, this was probably the smartest thing she’d done in a very long time. Without another thought, she pulled the stopper and swallowed the bitter liquid.
She’d purchased quite a few hangover potions from the apothecary in the past but none had ever worked quite so quickly and effectively as the one brewed by Snape’s own hand. Her stomach, which had been squirming like maggoty haggis had suddenly stilled, the Bludger thumping about inside her head had fortunately found an escape route, and the murky fog that had become an almost permanent fixture in her mind seemed to be lifting at a disconcerting rate. And now she was really, really fucking hungry.
“I’d like to change my mind about your offer of breakfast,” she said meekly. “I’d very much like to partake . . . After a quick shower?”
Snape gave a single nod and stood, sweeping the chair back to the table in one motion before collecting the bag from the table and disappearing into the kitchen.
Clutching the blanket around her, Hermione scurried to the bathroom for what she could only describe as the most blissful shower experience of her entire life.
“These might be the best eggs and bacon I’ve ever eaten,” Hermione said enthusiastically, tucking into the impressive plateful that Snape had placed before her.
He chewed with careful precision, taking occasional sips from a mug of black coffee that was making Hermione almost swoon with its impossibly intense aroma.
“Precision cooking is my occupation. I would hope I could do justice to a little protein,” he rumbled into his mug.
Hermione watched him with mounting intrigue. He’d been absolutely right about the detoxification potion. She suddenly felt as though the film of seedy despair that she’d managed to cover everything with, deadening herself and cloaking the world around her, had dissolved—been washed away. It had happened so suddenly and so effectively that she was nervous to think what two more vials of detoxification might do to her.
As she followed Snape’s graceful movements, she marvelled at how a man who had appeared so starkly black and white only an hour before, could now be infused with such surprisingly rich depth. She’d always considered him positively ghostly but now, with her newfound clarity, she noticed the warm glow to his skin; his lips, once anaemic were now a dusky red, even his black eyes possessed startling motes of amber—the blue-black shine to his hair, the soft pink of his hands, veins like rivers coursing over them. It was like she’d gained a whole new sense and it was opening up a world of perceptions and insights previously beyond her.
He caught her staring. She quickly took a sip of tea before muttering, “I can absolutely confirm that you’ve done this breakfast justice. One hundred percent.”
He frowned. Did she sound abnormal? Was she gushing? She was finding it difficult to judge. She’d been operating inside such a limited mindset, her sensations and emotions washed out for so long, that with the veil suddenly lifted and her prior behaviours receding, she was concerned that she might come across as slightly bizarre. Still, her behaviour probably couldn’t get any worse than sitting in his lap and vomiting all over him.
She really hoped she didn’t come across as totally unhinged. She didn’t want to drive him away. But maybe now that he’d helped her, he’d done what he’d come here to do, there was no reason for them to see each other again. Except, of course, for the book. That blasted book. That book that she was becoming increasingly grateful for.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
It was all she could think to say. She really meant ‘Thank you for everything’ but the lump in her throat was threatening to ruin her lovely meal.
He lifted an eyebrow in acknowledgement before placing another forkful delicately into his mouth.
She stared at her plate for a long time, waiting for the lump to recede.
“I read your latest chapter.”
Merlin’s Balls ‘Mione, I thought you’d had enough of fucking everything up!
He chewed slowly before giving a nod.
“It was beautifully written.”
Another small dismissive shrug.
“It seemed very personal.”
Nooooo, don’t go there.
“Weren’t you concerned that it might be too revealing, that people might judge you by it?”
He finished his mouthful before taking another sip of coffee.
“It’s only a story. And no one’s going to read it.”
He shrugged again.
“Don’t you care about me judging you?”
He gave her a curious look before picking up his napkin and wiping his mouth.
“I think you’ve already made up your mind about me, Miss Granger,” he said, before standing and carrying his plate from the room.
She stared after him. He couldn’t be further from the mark. She had absolutely no idea what to make of him anymore.
Hermione stared at the single word scrawled on her parchment. She felt nothing—nothing for that particular topic at least. She did, however, feel a desperate need for something else. Something she had never done before but something that she desired so intensely in that moment that she could hardly sit still.
He was beside her again, coat off, sleeves rolled up to expose surprisingly muscular forearms.
All that stirring. And chopping. And fingering. ‘Mione enough!
The effects of the detoxification potion seemed to be increasing exponentially. She felt a bizarre combination of relief, gratitude, shame and disgust, combined with an intense longing that made her previous mental incursions toward him seem positively chaste.
“What do you think about including something a little less . . . mainstream,” she ventured, focusing intently upon her page.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, maybe something a little . . . kinky?”
He paused in his writing. “I see no reason why not.”
He might see a reason why not in a minute.
She pretended she didn’t notice him watching her. Shit. How was she going to broach the next part? There was only one thing for it. Gryffindor courage. Gryffindor courage. Gryffindor courage.
“Have you ever spanked anyone before?”
She winced inwardly, wondering if she was going to explode with embarrassment.
Oh. Blunt admission. No explosions. All good so far.
Hermione thought about those muscular forearms. She couldn’t quite make them fit with his erotic narrative. There he is, rolling around in the starlight on the moss with his lover when he suddenly starts laying into her backside. Nope, it didn’t work. There was definitely more going on with him than he was letting on.
So now what? She watched the neat flowing strokes of his quill as he continued to fill his page, before allowing her eyes to rest upon his lap. It was quite a big lap. She’d sat in it. But unfortunately couldn’t quite remember how it felt. Would she ever be allowed on there again?
Suddenly he huffed and dropped his quill. “You’re going to have to ask me.”
Shit. He’d read her incredibly well-disguised thoughts – not.
She drew in a deep breath. It wasn’t the first excruciating thing she’d said to him and, no doubt, it wouldn’t be the last.
“Will you spank me . . . Please?”
Her face was instantly on fire.
“Because I want to write about it.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“No. Because I think it’ll make me feel better.”
“I did warn you about the effects of the potion.”
He considered her for an excruciatingly long time. “Can’t you just make something up?”
“I’ve never done it before. I’d prefer my writing to be . . . authentic.”
“Like the classroom scene?” he muttered drily.
Hermione decided to ignore that quip.
“It’s one less chapter you’ll have to write.”
He definitely looked more interested. “You’ll write the whole thing?”
She’d write a whole fucking series on spanking if he would just get on with it.
“Of course, as long as you make it sufficiently . . . inspiring.”
He tossed the quill and parchment to the floor. “Jeans on or off?”
Didn't he know? Surely it didn't take a legilimens to work out what the answer was going to be.
"Jeans and knickers off," he commanded, rolling up his right sleeve even further.
She could already feel herself giving the ‘wet woman’ a run for her money.
Chapter 9: Een Toevallige Affaire
Hermione’s enthusiasm at finally being able to legitimately touch him without having to resort to feeble tripping performances, was tempered somewhat by the uncharacteristically sober reality of what she was about to do. Normally she wouldn’t attempt anything like this without a gutful of beverages. Now she was floating about in some sort of psychedelic wonderland of sensoriality and about to embark upon mission ‘get those beautiful hands on my bare arse’ with little idea of the possible outcome.
Still, he’d agreed. That was something. Why he’d agreed was another thing entirely. But she couldn’t go there—not yet. She’d lived for years with her head boozily buried in the sand, so a few more hours couldn’t hurt. Something that she suspected would hurt though, were the short, sharp visitations from his prodigious palm. For something she had never done, and never wanted to do previously, she was surprised by how much her body was suddenly aching for it.
After toying with the idea of a quick trip to her bedroom to remove her clothing behind closed doors, she realised that any pretence of demurity would be quickly erased by the sight of her pale cheeks bouncing against the impeccable line of his expensive trousers. So she simply turned her back and slipped both layers down at once.
Should she comb her fingers through her flattened pubic hair? Just so it didn’t look so uninviting? No, that would be fucking stupid. Just turn the fuck around and get over his knee.
Hermione gathered all of her remaining courage—there wasn’t a whole lot of it left. And turned. He didn’t sneer at her deflated bush. He didn’t sneer at all. In fact, he looked quite officious, almost business-like with his shirtsleeve neatly folded to the elbow, his muscular forearm twitching slightly. Was he actually looking forward to this? He certainly didn’t seem repulsed by the prospect. Maybe he just welcomed the opportunity to teach this Gryffindor a lesson.
“So, where do you want me?”
She sounded like she was going to him for a haircut.
“The usual position is over one’s knee. Although there are numerous alternatives.”
And there it was again. The casual reference to his seemingly abundant knowledge. Whether that knowledge actually did exist and whether it had been gained first-hand, she guessed she would be finding out very shortly.
He’d shifted to the centre of the couch so she now had a theoretical choice of directions but obviously if he was right-handed she needed to lie with her bottom mainly over his right leg. Wouldn’t she? What would happen if he hit her backside downwards instead of upwards? She’d never thought about this sort of thing before. What if he was ambidextrous? Could he play her cheeks like the bongos?
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“No.” She answered too quickly. “I was just considering my . . . options. I think I’ll just . . . “
She tailed off awkwardly as she walked over and stood before him. Then, with all the grace of a collapsing marionette, she flopped herself over his parted thighs, mainly for the opportunity to finally give her beetroot face some reprieve from his scrutiny.
The first thing she felt was his hand on the back of her thigh, warm and smooth, completely relaxed— like it wasn’t the first time it had glided gently along his former student’s bare flesh. She knew he would be able to feel her breathing hitch against his thigh but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it; his touch, without the ginger beer buffer, was positively electrifying.
“How hard do you want it to be?”
The hint of danger in his voice, that firm hand, the taut muscles, unyielding beneath her abdomen made her literally quiver with anticipation. Of course the answer to that question was ‘how hard can you get?’ but she really had no idea what she was in for and throwing about sleazy innuendos whilst in such a compromising position didn’t seem particularly well advised.
“I’ll let you decide.” Her voice was soft and breathy, only partially due to the compression of her internal organs against his leg.
His hand slithered from her thigh, up the inner curve of her cheek, definitely closer to her pussy than she’d expected.
“I want you to count.” His hand stilled over one cheek.
“Why? How many are you planning?”
She heard a soft exhalation through his nose. Was he amused?
“So that I can judge your response.”
That sounded fair enou—
“One,” he corrected her.
She shook her head. He clearly wasn’t holding back. The sting of his first strike radiated through her entire globe.
He brought his hand down on her other cheek and she squealed, “Two!”
Back to the first cheek, a sharp slap, louder and even harder than the first two.
“Three,” she choked.
Did it really hurt that much? Or had the sensation been augmented by the effects of the potion?
She felt it so cleanly. His full palm, fingers splayed, resting on her cheek in the aftermath. The next one came quickly.
“Five,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
She knew what it was now. It was the emotional pain. The sense of being punished. Maybe that wasn’t what everyone felt in this position but she definitely did. She’d been a bad daughter. The worst. She’d done unimaginable things and this was what she deserved.
She was surprised to feel the strain seeping away with the heat that radiated from her backside.
He was hitting both cheeks in quick succession.
“Eleven . . . ow.”
That was a hard one, both cheeks at once. She’d felt her entire pelvis retract when it landed.
Another one. His hand was beginning to feel like baked leather.
It was getting intense. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Then he suddenly stopped. He must have heard the tightness in her voice. He smoothed his palm over her burning rump, sliding it gently down between her cheeks before circumnavigating what was, no doubt, blossoming into a bright red beacon.
When she relaxed against him, her breathing turning slow and rhythmic, he started again. This time it was different. They were brief, upward slaps that caused her cheeks to wobble. And as each one landed, it created a wave of vibrations that coursed right through her nether regions.
“Twenty-two,” he corrected.
She was losing track of her numbers. All she could focus on was the nexus between the burning pain in her backside and the building pleasure in her pussy. She found herself eagerly anticipating each incursion, even with the briefest of respite between them, the sting barely abating.
With the rhythmic waves shuddering through her flesh, stimulating her more deeply than she could even hope to describe, she could almost imagine herself coming from his spanking alone. And as his hand slipped down to massage her cheeks between each stroke, brushing increasingly closer but never quite touching the lips of her pussy, she was left under no illusions about his level of expertise.
“Forty,” she grunted, then noticed with mortification that her buttocks were lifted, straining upward, exposing herself to him as fully as possible. And worse. She felt wet. Really wet. Wet enough leave a stain. Would the ‘wet woman’ ever leave a stain? Of course she would, she wasn’t called the ‘wet woman’ for nothing.
He was rubbing her again. And this time she wanted him to rub his way right up into her. Now that she’d been comprehensively tenderised on the outside, she was more than ready to be tenderised on the inside.
“Is that enough for your chapter?” He baritone sounded from above her, his hand now gently kneading her buttocks like dough.
She was panting, still desperately thrusting herself into him.
“I think so,” came her muffled response, trying to will her burning buttocks to still.
Hermione sighed inwardly. She might have more than enough material to write her chapter but not nearly enough for her pussy which was aching for release. It had been far from a spanking demonstration. He had clearly been trying to stimulate her. And it’d worked. Spectacularly. Was this just another part of their arousal war? Did he do it to simply take pleasure from leaving her wanting? Did he enjoy having that power over her? She chewed on her bottom lip, continuing to lie awkwardly across him. There was only one way to find out.
“I could do with a bit of help with my fingering chapter too,” she murmured.
His hands disappeared from her rump leaving an immediate void. He was so quiet she couldn’t even hear him breathing. Had she scared him off again? Like when she’d called his bluff earlier?
“On my terms.”
It was phrased as a question but sounded very much like a demand. Ummm, hell yeah. She didn’t care whose terms it was on. She’d take whatever he wanted to give her. If her poor deprived pussy could finally find some relief she’d be more than happy.
“Whatever terms you like.” She nodded quickly, closing her eyes, waiting to feel those delicious hands upon her once again.
Instead, she felt his arms slide under her, lifting and flipping her all in one motion until she was facing upward, her head resting on the arm of the couch. Oh shit! She hadn’t banked upon having to look at him. And then it got worse. He lifted her right leg, stretching it up toward her chest before hooking it around the side of his left shoulder. Her other knee he bent and pushed away from him so that her pussy was gaping as though in deep shock. Which indeed it was.
She couldn’t imagine herself feeling any more exposed. And when he locked eyes with her and proceeded to skim his fingertips lightly up her inner thigh, she thought she might actually die. It was excruciatingly intimate. She absolutely could not let him penetrate her with his gaze and his fingers at the same time. She could barely look him in the eye when eating with him so keeping a poker face as he rammed his fingers up her twat was never going to happen.
Tempted to cover her face with both hands but realising how utterly ridiculous that would look, she settled for draping one arm across her eyes like some melodramatic movie heroine.
“I imagine you will be requiring some descriptive terms to assist with the authenticity of your prose,” he said.
She only just stifled a moan. It seemed he really did want to kill her after all. He couldn’t do it through her eyes so he was going to be killing her softly with his adjectives. Fuckity Fuck!
He breathed in deeply through his nose and she just knew that he was smelling her. Drawing in a great lungful of her arousal. How would he describe that? A fine drop? Plenty of nose? For fuck’s sake ‘Mione, don’t make it any worse!
As his fingertips traced lazy circles upon the skin of her inner thigh, encroaching ever so slowly toward her tingling labia, she felt his other hand sliding up under her shirt.
He may as well have been describing his voice.
“Her skin felt silken, a moist velvety warmth tingling with barely suppressed . . . lust.”
Oh Gods. She was only suppressed because of him. Actually, she was only lustful because of him too. He was to blame. So why did his words make her feel so hot with embarrassment and . . . just general hotness. Actually it was probably lucky he was providing her with a few words. She was rapidly losing her own.
One set of his exploring fingers had reached the underside of her bra while the others had worked their way to the fringe of her pubic hair and were now inching through the jungle, tickling along the pillowy flesh of her labia.
“Her flesh, succulent, utterly caressible, shivered—a fluttering pulse against my probing fingers.”
It was true. She was shivering. Was she caressible? He seemed to be finding her so. In fact, he’d just found her nipple so.
“Uhhhh.” Her head tipped back as her chest rose involuntarily to meet his fingertip. A tiny point of contact but enough to have her nipple stiffening into an aching bud.
At the same time his other hand slithered over her inner lips and alighted upon the hyper-sensitized head of her clitoris. Two points of contact now. Two nerve bundles firing like mad. If she did actually die she could imagine him defibrillating her in this exact position, restoring life to her body with a single jolt of electricity through both fingers; she felt it right now with the gradual increase in pressure, his digits twisting both throbbing peaks.
She moaned. It was both agony and ecstasy to be his plaything. But she felt, even this early in the proceedings, that she could get used to it. She might go insane but she’d be pleasantly insane.
The fingers on her nipple rolled and teased it more vigorously while the ones on her clit circled and jostled her swollen pearl until she was groaning and rocking her hips into him. As his hand slid across the satiny fabric of her bra to accost her other nipple, the other tracked down, his fingers slithering, serpentine and definitely solicitous, to her gaping hole which had been dripping the entire time and she felt had probably left another embarrassing stain. Lucky his trousers were black. Always.
“Lubricious is a word I’m rather taken with,” he said, sliding one long digit around the slippery entrance to her pussy.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Of course, there would be so many opportunities to use it in conversation.
“Her lubricious cunt—see you don’t have a monopoly on that word—squeezed me . . . Ah, yesss . . . ”
The word hissed from his lips, followed by a quiet groan as his finger slid up inside her. But rather than immediately pulling out and thrusting back into her, he kept it deep, seemingly intent upon feeling her, exploring. Then the hand that had been milking her nipple slipped out and she felt it reappear at the corner of her mouth, sliding between her lips and, with gentle pressure, forcing her mouth open until it was buried inside her warmth.
“Her lubricious cunt squeezed me, sucked me, like her mouth, both exquisitely warm, deliciously wet and devouring my fingers, both begging in their own sweet way for another. And I acquiesced.”
And fuck did he acquiesce!
Hermione’s arm slid from her face down to clutch at his bare forearm as he slid another finger into her channel and began pumping. She grabbed onto it, feeling the muscles working under her fingers as she sucked on the second digit in her mouth, running her tongue around and between the pair.
He groaned louder, deep and visceral, and her core clenched, surging with her own erotic expression at hearing his mounting desire. A third finger pushed into her pussy and she felt stretched to the limit, her cry slurred by the fingers sliding around inside her mouth.
Hips thrusting vigorously in time with his movements, she felt his thumb flick out and rub over her clitoris as his supple fingers dived deeper. Not only was he plunging into her but he would intermittently hold them rigidly, shaking them sideways or forwards and backwards, causing both openings to stretch and squeeze in all sorts of new ways that made her keen, open mouthed, into his palm.
She began to wonder if he might have cast Engorgio on her pussy as it had become so over-represented in her mind and body that she felt like her impending orgasm might actually split her in two. Panting, she dug her fingernails into his arm. She was getting close. And he’d obviously read the none-too-subtle cues as now his attention was focused on the front wall of her vagina. He was rubbing all three fingers against it. And not gently either. He was going to make it impossible for her not to release . . . everything.
When she cracked her eyes open in this maelstrom of activity she was shocked to see that his black eyes were focused intently upon her face. A lock of dark hair fell across his own and his lips were parted. He was also panting with the effort of his vigorously working hand. The fingers in her mouth pulled out and he traced their slick tips down her cheek. It was as though he wanted to both watch and feel her face as she came. Was that why he’d turned her over in the first place?
“On the verge of orgasm . . . she became . . . luminous.” His voice was breathy with the effort. “Delicately poised, she swelled, gathering, surging . . . and then . . . shattered in my hands."
Her eyes fluttered closed again and she moaned deep in her throat, writhing against his palm as he pushed her over the edge.
“Unnhhhh,” she cried, feeling the first pulsing waves of juice squirt from her as her pelvis seized, causing her buttocks to buck around uncontrollably in his lap. The leg against his shoulder shuddered, an externalisation of her inner seismic convulsions, which were made all the more intense by the prolonged stimulation by his agitating fingers, sloshing about inside her. He seemed to be able to draw more and more from her, wringing every last twitch and drop from her swollen channel until there was no more to give. As the final moan died in her throat, she was dimly aware that she was having trouble removing her fingernails from where she had embedded them in his arm.
When her eyes opened, she was surprised to see him flushed, the corners of his mouth hitched in a small, satisfied smile.
“I believe that was the . . . inspiration . . . you needed?”
She sighed, a smile of relief creeping onto her own lips. “Indeed.”
As they sat, drawing deep breaths, curiously smiling despite the huge wet patch she could feel on his trousers beneath her, she sensed a surprising depth of connection. This bizarre collaboration had managed to generate more than a few pages of smutty prose, it had opened her eyes to something, to someone whom she could never have imagined wanting to know, but who was becoming more intriguing to her by the hour. And while she seemed to be on a roll with him, she thought she might dive in with another request.
“There is one other chapter I wouldn’t mind some help with. I need the male perspective on a certain . . . activity.”
Withdrawing his hand from her snatch, he watched her juices trickle down his wrist, coursing toward the raised welts peppering his forearm. Rather than being concerned, however, he seemed to be admiring his handiwork.
“If I must," he rumbled. "For the sake of the book.”
Chapter 10: Eine Zufällige Affäre
Thanks to Slythero for the German translation for this chapter!
“That should come in handy for the next chapter,” said Hermione, pleased for an opportunity to, at last, deflect the attention from herself.
Hermione gestured to the prominent bulge that was threatening to burst through Snape’s trousers. She’d been so deeply engrossed in his enthusiastic fingering that she hadn’t registered the fact that he’d managed to work up an erection that could easily have come from a meeting between his crotch and the gaze of a basilisk. And she wouldn’t have blamed it for looking, just quietly.
“It’s never been described as ‘handy’ before,” he said drily.
“No, but I bet you have,” she murmured, rolling off his lap and away from those exceedingly ‘handy’ hands.
“Do you want me to take care of that?” She couldn’t help grimacing at the expansive wet patch that had soaked into his right trouser leg.
“You’ll Scourgify, will you?”
Hermione didn’t quite know how to respond. She’d now managed to soil two sets of his clothing in two days. And he didn’t want her juices removed from the current lot.
Hmmm, creepy or sexy ‘Mione? Which is it? There was no doubt about it, she found everything about him absolutely fucking sexy. Shocking but sexy. He was, after all, her sour old Potions Professor—rigid, formal, impeccably impeccable in every way. And now he was fingering her pussy like a man possessed, throwing around the occasional ‘cunt’ and sitting with said fingers resting upon the thigh that she’d just soaked with the best orgasm of her life.
“I could take a shower before we do the next . . . thing.”
“Why would that be required?” He appraised her with his practised frown.
Crossing her arms in an unsuccessful attempt to shield herself from his gaze, she wondered how the honest truth, ‘because I want you to eat my pussy now’ was going to go down.
“Well, I need to establish some of the dynamics around a certain . . . position and it’s . . . it’s going to require the two of us to mutually . . . you know . . . exchange . . . um . . . oral . . . pleasures.”
He rubbed a finger in almost imperceptible but, she suspected, quite deliberate circles in the wet patch on his trousers. “You’re concerned about me performing cunnilingus on you post-orgasm?”
He made it sound so neat and tidy. It was far from fucking neat and tidy. His trousers and her sopping snatch could attest to that.
She couldn’t even reply. The admission was beyond embarrassing. But watching him sitting there, his finger rotating gently, his eyebrow slightly arched, she was more concerned by the realisation that what she really wanted was to crawl back onto his lap and snog him. It was such a bizarre and overwhelming compulsion that she had to turn away before he read it on her face, or perhaps in her mind—although she hadn’t sensed him resorting to that yet. No doubt she was as easy to read as a smutty book without it anyway.
“I just thought you might have a personal preference,” she muttered.
“I do.” His voice stopped her. “Shall we proceed?”
Hermione closed her eyes. He was telling her that he preferred her pussy as it was. Unable to decide whether she should be mortified, relieved or completely turned on, she thought she’d go for all three at once—just to fuck with her poor bewildered brain a little more.
She half turned back to him, not wanting to meet his eyes. “If you’re ready. And you don’t need something to . . . you know . . . eat or drink . . . like a snack before you . . .”
“Before I . . . what?” She hadn’t seen him move but he was suddenly directly behind her, his warm breath on the back of her neck.
Oh, shit! She was beginning to understand what he’d meant by the ‘sustained solicitations of a serpent’ line. She was finding him a maddening combination of enigmatic irresistibility and subtle inducement, a blend of resistance and insistence—the simultaneous pull and push of which were extremely difficult to counter.
He was clearly far more mischievous than she would have ever imagined; his writing was meltingly sensual but, honestly, the most recent experience with him had been so fucking erotic she was almost afraid of what she would discover about him in their next liaison. Even his presence she was finding more than a little intoxicating—and she was pretty confident that the detox potions weren’t going to be of any help in that department. If anything, they seemed to be making things worse.
He wasn't touching her, but Hermione could feel the presence of his cock behind her, like a shadow cast against her bare buttocks. Was there a particularly intense heat radiating from it or had she really acquired an extra sense post detox? She felt glued to the spot, unsure of how to proceed. His finger fucking had been beyond amazing. But the way he’d looked at her. His desire to watch her face rather than her pussy throughout made her wonder if he was, in fact, a sensualist at his core. Could he even like her? Admittedly she had belittled and insulted him, called him a cunt several times and vomited all over him. But still, it might be a slow week for him. Clearly he wasn’t short on action. She also knew him to be compassionate. Maybe he felt sorry for her? She’d never heard of a sympathy hard-on before but it was possible.
Taking a deep breath she slowly moved her hand back to where she sensed he was, her fingers trailing over the wool of his trousers until she felt the hard contours of his cock. This time he didn’t pull away. As her fingertips brushed over the rigid warmth she discovered there, she heard a low growl in her ear and her hair instantly prickled. Jaw dropping slightly in an effort to draw in enough breath to stay upright, she continued her journey, stretching her fingers higher until she skirted the bold line of his head and felt him grunt into the skin behind her ear.
Shivering with a mixture of electrostatic attraction and fearful anticipation, she finally allowed her hand to close around the impressive girth of his shaft, to feel it pulsing in her hand. Almost expecting to experience his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her neck, the final stage of his encroachment, she was instead plundered again by his voice—ghosting gently across her temple.
“Miss Granger, I have agreed to your terms. Kindly allow me to . . . satisfy . . . those requirements.”
She could very much imagine herself leading him by the cock to her bedroom but it seemed a little disrespectful under the circumstances so she did as he asked, but not before gratuitously sliding her hand down his entire length, just to get a sense of his dimensions.
Before she could take another step he had spun her around and crushed her into his chest, one arm pinned behind her back.
“Do you think it wise to tease at this point in the proceedings?” The tip of his nose was only millimetres from the side of her own and when he tilted his head slightly, it trailed a smooth line along her ridge. She had probably been a bit naughty. After all, she hadn’t asked permission to touch in the first place—although he did seem to respond in the positive. She wondered if this dominance display was all part of the performance or if he was genuinely miffed. Either way it would have been panty-wetting if she’d been wearing any. Instead it was simply something else he was going to have to deal with when he got down her end.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” she breathed. “I just wanted to get a sense of . . . proportions for my writing.”
“I believe you’ll have more than sufficient opportunity to . . . sample . . . my proportions all . . . too . . . soon.”
There was little she could say to that. And the reality was that she couldn’t talk even if she’d wanted to as the tip of his nose had continued across her cheek to her temple and was now trailing down her jawline. Her head tilted to allow him access and she wondered whether, if she moved quickly enough, she might even be able to capture his lips which were now hovering at the pulsing juncture with her throat.
However, before she could make her move, he suddenly released her. Thankfully the door frame was close enough for her to latch onto before her legs collapsed. When she looked up at him, he seemed so much bigger than she remembered. His hair was no longer flat, their actions had left it tousled, almost mane-like. He was without his coat but his lean strength was visible through the tailored material of his shirt and his black eyes were so deeply penetrating, almost predatory that she felt like she was luring a panther into her modest bedroom—imagining herself emerging a dishevelled mess like she’d just indulged in a decidedly infelicitous foursome with Fluffy the three-headed dog.
As she retreated slowly, backing into her room, he advanced; she definitely felt like she was being hunted. What had started off as simply an opportunity to discover how willing he was to engage with her further, was rapidly becoming a cat and mouse game that was both exhilarating and frightening. She suspected he’d been right all along. She had bluff Gryffindor courage on her side but he was in an entirely different league when it came to such matters. Clearly she could turn him on, she’d done that multiple times, but what he chose to do subsequently was becoming a jaw-dropping journey of discovery, and she suspected that after the impending engagement she might require some sort of jaw relocating incantation—not the least from trying to provide some oral accommodation for a cock the size of the one currently approaching like a jouster’s lance.
“I think we’ve had enough play, Miss Granger,” he growled suddenly. With a neat flick of his wrist, he wandlessly removed her shirt and then her bra, leaving her completely naked, hands twitching at the need to cover something but knowing it was ultimately useless.
Then he locked his eyes on hers, tilting his head backward to peer down his nose at her before bringing his fingers to the top button of his shirt. He was slowly undressing himself in front of her. Watching her response. And now that she was naked, fully exposed, there was nothing she could hide from him. It was so agonisingly revealing but also so disconcertingly carnal that it made her head spin. And as he exposed a long swathe of supple skin from his chest down to his abdomen, one tight nipple breathing in the shadow of his open shirt, she felt her own nipples harden in response and his eyes were there, all over her, watching every pore for evidence of arousal. In reality she could just have blurted out the words that were screaming through her head, ‘Yes, I think you’re totally fucking hot and you can do whatever the fuck you want to me, in whatever position you want, for as long as you want—acknowledging that I continue to retain all of my feminist principles of course.’
But he seemed far more interested in her non-verbal communication. And when he finally released the buttons on his trousers and dropped them to reveal the ladle of all ladles, the embarrassingly wanton moan that escaped her lips seemed to be the final evidence he needed. Stepping out of his trousers, he kicked his boots off and leaned his hard body into her until she collapsed onto her bed under him.
“So where do you want me?” he rumbled, his warm breath trickling across her heaving chest.
Oh fuck. She closed her eyes. Everywhere, you sexy bastard. Everywhere.
Chapter 11: Accidental Afera An
Hermione had to stop herself mid-swoon and remember that it was her request for sex position assistance that had precipitated her current predicament—heaving like a sea anemone beneath the smooth planes of his naked torso. She wanted to touch him but even that seemed a little forward so she took the slightly more restrained approach of clutching the quilt in a death grip, as though afraid that she might be suddenly sucked into the depths of the eyes that were probing her expectantly.
“Um, I want you to . . . um . . . ” She began gesticulating inanely with her hands, still clutching at the quilt between each feeble wave. Taking a deep breath, she started again, “You know how you’re quite tall and I’m . . . um . . . less . . . you know . . . tall. Well I just . . . I was wondering how it would work if . . . if we . . . were in a certain position and we wanted to . . . um . . . give each other . . . oral . . . stimulation. I thought we could just . . . you know . . . look at the . . . dynamics . . . that would . . . would . . . enable such an activity to be . . . um . . . successfully . . . enacted.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes and so found herself focusing on the conspicuous scar at his neck. It had no doubt been intensively treated at the time but was still clearly visible. There were others too—a large one scoring his shoulder and a pair puncturing his chest. She’d been there when it’d happened. Had he remembered? Did he know that they’d tried to help him? She actually hoped he didn’t remember as in the end they’d left him, assuming he was dead. It was yet another moment she wasn’t proud of—just another to add to the collection.
When her eyes finally returned to his, he was frowning. Had he read her mind? She desperately hoped he hadn’t. She didn’t want to go there, not now—she’d managed for years to avoid that murky mire where all of her worst memories festered like infected sores—the war, her parents, his near death along with many other actual deaths—she’d buried all of them and wasn’t in the mood for some sort of fetid exhumation.
It was the first time Hermione’d thought of liquor since drinking the detoxification potion. She didn’t crave it but it was her psychological crutch as much as anything. Please don’t, she willed him, knotting the quilt in her fists.
“I believe such a position can be accommodated,” he murmured. But something in his eyes told her he was giving her an out, letting her go—allowing her to breathe. Which she did with sudden relief as he lifted her with a single arm and flipped her over onto his chest before pushing backwards onto the stack of pillows at her bedhead. Laying with her naked breasts pressed against him, fingers splayed across his collar bones, she wondered if he actually did want her to kiss him. It would only be a natural consequence of gravity after all. She could so easily fall into those soft lips. And perhaps simultaneously fall out of her miserable life. Or was it too much to expect—too great a burden to place on another? Especially someone with a past like his?
“Do you plan to continue in absentia?” he asked, his deep voice vibrating through her chest.
“You keep drifting away.”
She sighed down at him. He could see everything. “Can you stop me drifting away?”
He gazed at her for a long time and as she rose and fell with each deep breath, listing along on his warm waves, she wondered just how wise it was to invite him to firmly anchor her in the present.
“I believe I can provide a . . . compelling . . . alternative.”
She was surprised at how his dramatic pauses, which had once pissed her off, now turned her on—seriously.
“Do it,” she breathed.
Famous. Last. Words.
Hermione couldn’t quite work out how it all happened but she was suddenly moaning with what felt like his thumb pressing against the entrance to her anus and his tongue quivering at the apex of her labia. She was eye to eye with the most compelling cock she’d ever encountered but was incapable of doing anything beyond grasping the base of his shaft before moaning into it like bad karaoke.
Although he wasn’t touching any of the parts that were throbbing with need, his stimulation at the extremes of her pussy seemed to intensify the sensory void between, leaving it positively aching. As his thumb continued to pulse against her tight ring of muscle, his tongue flicked closer and closer to the head of her clitoris without quite touching it.
Feeling her face flushing with a mixture of effort and need, Hermione tried to focus on the task at hand or, more precisely, in hand. She would have dearly liked to indulge in some exquisite teasing of her own but was so distracted by what was happening beneath her swaying backside that all she could execute were a few slow pumps of the velvety skin encasing his smoking hot rod. As she considered the contrast between her own feeble inroads into stimulating him and the soft lips and tongue that were now closing over her howling clitoris and whipping it like a naughty bottom, she dispiritedly realised that there seemed to be a mismatch in abilities. She sighed into the milky skin of his abdomen, dearly hoping that this was going to one of those ‘hare and tortoise’ type situations where she, the less-than-titillating tortoise, would come home strongly. Speaking of coming strongly, she realised with even greater dismay that she wasn’t far off—at all.
Fuck. This was embarrassing! She hadn’t even managed to get her mouth near him and already she could feel the tension winding up deep inside her. Perhaps if she asked him to slow down. Or kept him away from her—
“Uuuhhhhh,” she moaned, prostrating herself at the base of his cock which she clutched like a ceremonial staff; two of his fingers had lunged into her channel and started pumping in time with the mounting pressure between her cheeks.
“Professor?” she gasped. “I don’t think I can . . . “
“Severus.” His voice was thick around her clitoris.
“Uh . . . Severus.” She winced. It sounded awkward but perhaps it was reasonable to assume that first name terms are appropriate when his face was buried in her pussy.
“Severus . . . I think I’m going to . . . uhhhhh . . . I’m going to . . . come.” She groaned out the last word as he pushed a third finger into her channel.
“I’m aware,” he responded, without skipping a beat against her throbbing nub.
Of course he was. Why the fuck wouldn’t he be? Her whole writhing form was a study in out-of-control, pre-orgasmic, lasciviousness.
Pressing her forehead against his clenching pelvis she panted, “I’m sorry,” before she couldn’t hold back any longer, keening out her release as her pussy exploded.
He continued to lick and suck at her clitoris as his fingers thrust against the powerful waves coursing through her shuddering channel. Her pussy bucked against his face, smearing him liberally with juices which she could hear him consuming in deep gulps. Panting out high-pitched wheezes with each convulsion, she continued until her face had been reduced to a sweaty tumbleweed rocking against his skin. She had absolutely no idea how to explain what had just happened but continued to cling doggedly onto his cock in an attempt to demonstrate her good intentions.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“I . . . I wanted to do more. I just couldn’t . . . “
“It’s not necessary to apologise. That was simply a warm up.” His voice rose from behind her. “I’ll continue until you’re finished.”
Merlin’s fucking arsehole! Finished? Did he mean dead?
Swallowing against the dryness in her parched throat, she tipped the head of his cock toward her mouth. Watching it approach like a nuclear warhead, she suddenly felt consumed with a sense of unfairness. She wasn’t actually that bad at this kind of thing. She’d blown plenty of guys quite successfully. And she didn’t mind a challenge. But her past experiences were all with normal cocks on normal men, not a cock like this on a man like this. It suddenly seemed as powerful and potentially insurmountable as she had known him to be as a wizard. Was that always the case? Did a wizard’s cock always emulate their wizarding prowess? It certainly did with Ron—he wasn’t a great wizard, and his cock . . . well, some of his ex-girlfriends had been disappointed enough to refer to him as ‘Measly Weasley.’ Maybe Snape was just one out of the box. Actually, correction, he was one into the box—very, much, so . . . Gods!
His tongue was already inside her, lapping up the walls of her engorged channel. If she’d thought she might enjoy a moment of reprieve, a latent period in which her pussy could sit dazed, unwilling to engage, the answer was ‘No’. That was definitely not the case. Her pussy seemed just as eager as the last two times to open itself up to another good plundering. It really wasn’t a good start for the tortoise.
She sighed against the smooth curve of his head. Her main problem with his cock was that it felt too good for her. Like it had been spoiled throughout its life by a richness of exotic experiences and now here it was with some heaving tumbleweed being treated to an ensemble of feeble groping manoeuvres. Still, she couldn’t afford to be intimidated. It wouldn’t be fair. But she was definitely going to be manipulating the protagonists in her chapter to reflect a more balanced performance.
Taking a deep breath she opened her mouth and lowered her lips over him. She welcomed his soft fleshy warmth against her tongue but only managed to get a comparatively small way down his considerable length before she felt herself being stretched. Apart from casting some sort of shrinking incantation, which she would absolutely not be doing, it would be too utterly disrespectful to a cock like this, she had no choice but to use her hands, probably both of them, to make up the shortfall.
Resting her elbows on either side of him, she brought her hands together on his shaft before starting to suck gently on him. She’d only just established a rhythm, her hands sliding up and down as she bobbed her head over him when she felt both of his thumbs at her opening, pulling it apart so his tongue could delve inside, probing even deeper than before.
“Mmmmm,” she buzzed around his cock and he groaned into her pussy in response, his hips lifting off the bed.
Well that was something at least. Come on ‘Mione. You can do this!
Pulling off him with a wet ‘pop’, she slid her lips down to the base and began licking him, swiping her tongue over his silky finish and taking heart from the way his cock bobbed and jerked in response. And when she met the trickle of pre-cum coursing down the taut ridge of his head, scooping it up with the tip of her tongue, she breathed a sigh of relief; she was definitely making progress.
But unfortunately that was as far as she got.
He suddenly plunged two fingers into her pussy, sliding them up beside his tongue. It was such a rapid and emphatic intrusion that she was forced to stop, propping her forehead against her wrists, groaning deeply. She could hear his fingers sloshing around in the juice of two orgasms, a third enthusiastic arousal and copious amounts of his saliva. But as suddenly as they’d arrived, his digits disappeared. Breasts rising and falling against his stomach, she lifted her head, lining up his dick for her next assault. But he beat her to it—again.
One slick finger reappeared at the entry to her anus and this time he didn’t stop at the first constriction. With gentle but insistent force, he pushed into her, making her cry out with what she was surprised to discover was far more pleasure than pain. After sliding into her a few times, she felt another two fingers push into her vagina, all three delving into her simultaneously. And when his thumb started on her clitoris she realised that he was managing to penetrate both holes with one hand. Where the hell did he learn that? Was it some secret handshake from a clandestine fingering society? Fuck!
He’d eased her forward to give his hands room to work so she, theoretically, had better access to his cock. But his vigorous pumping and, now, rigid shaking in what she could only describe as a pussyquake had her face instead collapsing against his groin, getting more acquainted with his pubic hair than anything else.
“Severusssss,” she moaned, releasing his cock and clawing at the quilt in a vain attempt to gain some traction on her increasingly erratic movements and, possibly, her waning sanity. In response, he increased his clitoral ministrations and plunged deeper into both openings until she had no choice but to capitulate.
“Gods!” The hoarse cry flew from her lips as her head strained upward, her entire body hyperextending with her most powerful orgasm yet. After the initial rictus strained through her, she collapsed forward, dislodging him from her pulsating orifices which continued to constrict forcefully, even without his supple digits to suck on.
As her breaths puffed into his pubic hair, she cracked open her eyes to see his full cock still looming over her like some bastion of invincibility. This was impossible. He was impossible. She would have been upset if she hadn’t had a trifecta of incredible orgasms to placate her—and if his incredibly sensual hands hadn’t started massaging her lower back so luxuriously. In reality, he was the one who should have felt hard done by in this slightly one-sided exchange. Perhaps she could console herself with the knowledge that she’d managed to pioneer the new sixty-one sex position, where one person does all the work and the other lies there like a fucking plank.
Come on ‘Mione! Where’s that Gryffindor courage? That fighting spirit?
It’s seeping out of my pussy onto his chest!
Do you think he’s going to come back for more?
Not more of this.
More of what then?
It was true, she hadn’t given him any reason to want to engage with her further—she’d only given him reasons to run a mile. Finally lifting her face from where she’d been blow-drying his groin, she made a decision. She would conquer his incontrovertibly commanding cock if it was the last thing she did. And it probably would be. She could imagine in two days’ time, Mr Dooley paying her a visit, wondering why she hadn’t turned up for work and where the fucking book was.
He would call through the mailbox, ‘Have you got that book?’
And she would call back, her mouth full of a decidedly saliva-logged cock, ‘I’m still working on it!’
Okay, this isn’t very helpful ‘Mione. He’s just a man, the same as any other (except apparently a sex God when he’s not wandering around the classroom sneering at people’s potions), you know what men like, just do it.
Just do it? That’s what she’d said to him and look where it had gotten her. On a one-way journey to ‘death by orgasm.’
This time she decided to maximise her chances of success by keeping her throbbing and saturated holes as far away from him as possible. She remained with her pelvis against his chest and lifted her front end so she could capture his cock in her mouth again. Wrapping one hand around the shaft, she sent the other down to consult with his balls. Even they seemed ridiculously large. She hoped it didn’t mean she was going to cop a firehose of semen if it ever did finally arrive.
Still, that was the least of her concerns. She needed to focus. Drawing the hand on his cock up and down more vigorously, she sucked on his head and swirled her tongue around and over it whilst tugging at his scrotum and gently rubbing his balls. And it worked. She would have grinned if her lips weren’t already stretched to the maximum, hearing him groan behind her, his fingers digging into her buttocks.
Twisting her head from side to side, she increased the pressure around him whilst dragging her hand from the base to the line of her lips. The hand on his scrotum rubbed his nuggets more vigorously, feeling them tighten beneath her fingertips. Then, with a sinking heart, she felt something else. It started as a tingling in her clitoris and then she sensed a strange pressure, like her nub was swelling, expanding like a fleshy balloon. She began to strongly suspect that he’d cast an engorgement charm on her, on the most sensitive part of her body and that he was looking to push her over the edge for the fourth time that morning.
Her suspicions were confirmed when a deft finger nudged her swollen globe and a jolt of electricity coursed through her nether regions, making her howl around his knob.
“I trust this is helping to keep you in the present?” His voice was low but she sensed a note of amusement.
Hermione huffed through her nose, not wanting to lose her momentum now that she could feel him responding. Doing her best to ignore the distraction of his fingertip sliding around her corpulent clit, she increased the speed of her movements and simultaneously tried to take a little more of him into her mouth. She felt like one of those snakes on nature programs who manage to stretch their jaws around a whole deer. Of course it was the snake that was being consumed in this scenario. And by consumed she meant nibbled.
She’d thought she was managing to block out the distraction reasonably well until another of his fingers turned up at the entrance to her pussy and slid inside. Her channel had been left so swollen in the wake of her multiple orgasms that his single digit felt huge, and when he attempted a pair, she wondered if in fact his entire arm had been recruited for the job. The simultaneous pressure on her screaming clit and now reaming against her engorged walls made her want to grit her teeth but it seemed ill-advised with his cock still wedged in her mouth.
Everything was rapidly slipping away again. Hermione felt herself spiralling back down that rabbit hole and she realised now that, unlike the tortoise, slow and steady wasn’t going to win the race. It was a finger up the arse that was going to win the race. The new plan constituted a less uplifting allegory but she couldn’t give two fucks at that moment. Levering her aching jaw off his cock, she sucked her index finger into her mouth. It was less than ideal lubrication but it was all she could manage at short notice without dipping into her own twat, which happened to be filled beyond capacity at that moment.
She noted that her breathing and become more laboured and the warmth had returned to her face. There was no doubt that she was going to come again. But this time she was taking him with her.
Returning to his cock with renewed vigour, she clamped onto his shaft and pressed her tongue into his slit whilst tracking her other hand below his balls until she found his clenching ring. Without hesitation, she entered. A sharp breath hissed from behind her. First blow against the solicitous serpent. His cock instantly became impossibly harder and she felt his breathing quicken beneath her pelvis. You are mine, Professor of Finger Fucking.
Delving into his rectum, she pumped his shaft and engulfed his swollen head in her mouth; he responded by thrusting up into her. It would have been a good sign except that he was pumping in time with the fingers that were in her pussy and she absolutely knew that he wanted her to imagine his cock inside her. Her core surged again.
Keep it together ‘Mione. Not much longer.
It was true. The grunts and moans that were reverberating from his chest were deepening. His cock was like steel and a steady stream of pre-cum was dribbling onto her tongue. But at the same time her pussy was a carnival of sensations that was threatening to send her into a delirium. Pushing deeper into his rectum she felt his prostate through the wall and rubbed against it as she sucked hard.
“Yesss,” he growled as he thrust forcefully into her. “Her mouth took me there . . . imploring me to release my seed . . . I could no longer refrain, giving it to her in gratuitous gushes . . . planting them deeply.” He ended with a guttural groan.
So he’d been fucking refraining, had he? Fucking tenacious bastard. And ‘planting deeply’? Well that was yet to be—
A forceful jet of come hit the back of her throat making her swallow immediately. It was followed by plenty more as his cock jerked about inside her mouth. And then her pussy joined him, shattering around his fingers, her giant clitoris rubbing against his sternum, upping the intensity of her orgasm. She almost choked with trying to cope with the steady stream of semen amid her own convulsions and by the time both had finished, she had been reduced to a shuddering mess, finally sliding off the side of him onto the bed.
She was too incoherent to even swear. And when she felt his hand on her, between her breasts, lying gently over her heart, she also became emotionally incoherent. There was too much going on here. Too much to interpret; too much to misinterpret.
Unsure of how long they both lay there, she was suddenly aware of him moving.
“I have a meeting to attend.”
He rolled off the bed and within seconds had dressed.
“I have teaching all day tomorrow but can finish my writing in the evening,” he said, standing above her so that he was upside down. “Then we are due to meet with Mr Dooley the following day at 5pm?”
Hermione nodded, still unable to speak.
“I’ll owl the remaining pages and copies of the drawings through to you in the morning. Hopefully that will leave you with sufficient time to compile the book?”
She nodded again.
He gave a singular nod in return, his black eyes intently focused upon hers.
“I’d also like to apologise for questioning your courage. Detoxification is not an insignificant undertaking. You are to be commended.”
It was such a formal goodbye, she didn’t know what to make of it. Then he leaned forward and trailed two fingers down her cheek as he had done when he’d first made her come.
He looked about to say something but then turned. And was gone.
Chapter 12: Náhodnému Affair
Hermione lay on her bed, her mind adrift on a rolling tide of thoughts. It was ironic that she should be granted an elevated level of clarity by the detoxification potion, only for her over-taxed brain to be so overwhelmed by the events of the past hour that she’d been rendered virtually incoherent. But the more she considered what had transpired between herself and Snape, the more she wondered if he’d actually been quite deliberate in his motives. Considering his occupation, she wondered if, in his own way, he’d been seeking to teach her—and perhaps even to test her. She also couldn’t rule out the possibility that there was an amount of teasing involved. She had found him to be prone to a surprising amount of mischief after all.
So now what? Had she learned? Had she passed? Or had he simply finished playing with her? Certainly his parting words had seemed pretty final. He’d left no real opening for them to meet again before returning the book to the museum. Did what they’d shared mean anything to him at all? Maybe this is what he did, how he’d become so experienced—sampling widely, playing, trialling, appraising and leaving. She shouldn’t feel as upset about it as she did. In reality, she’d done pretty fucking well out of the past few days. It was certainly the most stimulating week she could remember in years, for more reasons than one. And Snape had surprised her. He’d been understanding, compassionate, had cared for her when she was ill, cooked for her, opened her eyes to a whole new world of sex, given her a handful of the best orgasms of her life, and provided her with an opportunity to turn her life around.
The problem was that she couldn’t see any point in sobriety if she was simply going to go back to the same miserable existence she’d been attempting to endure these past years. That sort of life could only be made worse with clarity—the sad truth smacking her flush in the face every second of the day. So what was she really saying? That she wanted someone like Snape in her life? Severus. She still couldn’t get used to the idea of calling him by his first name so it seemed a little bizarre for the space beside her to feel so empty. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought that she might even be . . . missing him.
She could still smell him. Taste him. Her pussy was still throbbing from his touch. She absolutely needed to shower but if this was the last time she was ever going to touch him, the idea of washing away all trace of him seemed like just another loss.
‘Mione, you need to pull yourself together! You hated him less than a week ago. How can you suddenly be pining over him?
Had she really hated him? Or had she hated herself? Did he simply represent the memories of everything she’d tried to bury since school? Her failings, her shortcomings—not ever being good enough?
She thought about his fingers trailing down her cheek. It seemed a rather intimate gesture if only to acknowledge her decision to detoxify. But now she began to wonder if the whole orgasm marathon might indeed have been related to that. Was it a test of the detoxification regime? An attempt to demonstrate resilience—the capacity to withstand stress and not give in, to not fall off the bandwagon? Could this whole thing have been manufactured for him to fulfil his childhood promise?
And then there was the book. He’d deliberately destroyed it—she was now convinced of that. But why? To get her into trouble? It seemed very unlikely. He didn’t even know she worked there. And why a sex book in the first place? He wasn’t a prude. Far from it. It made no sense.
Hermione decided that she could easily lie there all day trying to rationalise his behaviour but she actually had a hell of a lot of writing to do. One downside of her exhilarating engagements with him was the fact that she’d promised to write far more than originally planned. The upside was that she had plenty of material—and some deep-seated inspiration.
Wrapping herself in a dressing gown, she sat herself down at the dining table with a pile of parchment and the bottle of magical ink. Stopping only once for a quick meal, she wrote for hours and hours until dusk crept quietly into her flat, catching her almost asleep. In the fading light, she blinked at the window imagining what he might be doing. Was he writing as she was? Was he thinking of her as she was him? Despite the intricate scenarios of thrilling sexual engagements she’d conjured in her mind, she couldn’t help the overwhelming sense that, like her, he was essentially a lonely person. And the passion with which he wrote made her believe that his romantic notions hailed from a deep place, somewhere genuine and, ultimately, vulnerable despite the sexual confidence that he seemed to possess. The other thought that she couldn’t shake was the notion that he’d had a difficult and traumatic life. And yet he was still prepared to give. He’d already given her a considerable amount. Far more than she’d given him.
She was struck by a sudden inspiration, a desperate need to write. And it came as a flood, tumbling out without pause. The entire process felt cathartic, intensely therapeutic, gradually stitching together one of the many wounds deep within her. And by the end, her face was damp with tears.
After dropping her quill, it was all she could do to stumble to her bed before falling into an exhausted dream-filled sleep. And she would be awarding no prizes for guessing who the main protagonist was in them all.
Hermione had an early shift at the Museum the next morning and was shocked, and somewhat horrified, to find herself crying in the shower as she finally washed his essence from her. She admonished herself for being fucking ridiculous but it didn’t stop her from feeling miserable.
Spending the day treading the lifeless boards in gloomy surveillance almost did her head in. The only highlight was when she was able to finally get into the storeroom to examine the tattered remains of the book which had been placed inside a box. Part of the front cover was scorched but it was still mostly visible and, using her wand, she was able to magically transfer the image from the front cover onto a piece of thick parchment, placing it in her bag.
At home that afternoon, she flopped down on the couch and threw back the second detoxification potion. The effect was quick, almost instantaneous. It was then that she knew she couldn’t do it—she physically wasn’t going to be able to stop herself. Grabbing her bag and coat she headed for the door, aware that she was probably about to make yet another massive mistake.
Hermione’s knock on the door sounded weak, almost tremulous. It was the first time she’d touched the ancient wood it in five years but the same trepidation thundered through her chest.
“Enter,” his voice boomed. The familiarly surly tone was almost enough to make her turn and run, which she might have attempted if her legs hadn’t instantly turned into shuddering lumps of jelly. Dredging up a breath from the soles of her feet, she waited a moment, willing herself to at least appear calm, before pushing open the classroom door.
Snape was at his desk, writing. He didn’t look up immediately and she didn’t speak, stopping just inside the door. When he finally lifted his head to regard her, he appeared genuinely shocked, immediately standing.
“Miss Granger, is there something wrong? Has there been an issue with the potions?”
She shook her head, approaching him tentatively.
The frown that sliced through his brow was made all the more severe by the shadow of the dungeons, making it difficult for her to speak.
Just give him the feeble story, ‘Mione. Then he can tell you to fuck off.
Clutching her bag in both hands, she stopped in front of his desk.
“I just came to remind you that you have a chapter to write on . . . intercourse . . . in water.”
He appraised her for a long moment before responding, “I am aware.”
She lifted her chin in acknowledgement. “Oh, right. I . . . um . . . I just stopped by to . . . check if you needed any . . . any help with the . . . words.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly as he studied her. “What words would you be looking to provide?”
Hermione could feel the crimson flush rolling up her throat.
“Um . . . more . . . just the . . . female perspective on . . . “ she tailed off.
He placed his quill down with careful precision before stepping around the desk, trailing his fingers lightly across its surface. Moving around until he was standing in front of her, he crossed his arms and sat on the edge of the desktop so that his eyes were now level with hers. He stretched one long leg out until his large boot sat beside her two small ones. He was disconcertingly close but she didn’t want to withdraw, to reveal how intimidated she really felt. His scent was full and heady and she almost closed her eyes to savour it.
“I hadn’t decided upon the . . . location . . . for this particular chapter,” he stated quietly. “Perhaps you can advise?”
“Yes. Bath . . . shower . . . river . . . ocean?” Each word rolled off his tongue as he penetrated her with his gaze. “Which should it be?”
Hermione chewed her bottom lip. “What’s the . . . the difference?”
What the fuck? You don’t know the difference between a bath and the ocean?
He inhaled deeply through his nose. “Having sex in deep water, even a bath, is necessarily slower—movements are impaired by the density of the fluid but bodies are virtually weightless and can be maintained for a protracted period in certain positions, provided there is sufficient lubrication. By contrast, sex in a shower affords more rapid movements due to the reduced water mass but, depending upon the position, the male may be required to support the female’s weight.”
“Would that be a problem?”
It was rather unequivocal.
“I believe that the . . . the quicker movements might be . . . required.”
Required? Why ‘Mione? You may as well have told him that you are desperate for him to fuck you as hard and fast as he can.
“Well then.” He leaned back slightly. "How do you wish . . . to proceed?” His eyes flickered as he measured her.
Proceed? She hadn’t expected that from him at all. He’d always seemed to naturally take the lead. Was this some sort of role reversal?
His arms were still crossed, his leg was still too close. In reality, the way she would have liked to ‘proceed’ was by thrusting her tongue into the vague smirk on his lips and snogging him senseless. Instead she extended one faintly trembling hand and grasped his wrist, pulling his hand out from where it was locked beneath his elbow. Then she placed his palm against her cheek, her eyes not wavering from his despite her roiling heart.
She noticed him flinch with the contact to her face before his jaw firmed. Slowly, he slid his hand from her cheek around behind her ear, raking his long fingers into her hair. Then in one fluid movement he stood and leaned over her, his lips hovering adjacent to her temple.
“You need to learn to articulate, Miss Granger,” he muttered, his voice a low growl. “Tell me what . . . you want.”
“You . . . ” she gasped, somehow unable to continue.
He turned his face into her, tilting her head back until she could feel his teeth bared at the curve of her jaw. His breath was coming in soft bursts and she wondered what he was going to do to her.
“We both know that’s not the case, Miss Granger,” he murmured. “But I’m . . . intrigued by your offer.”
She felt his teeth graze her earlobe and a shiver captured her spine.
“I look forward to hearing what you have to say,” he whispered before suddenly turning away and leading her by the hand to a second door in the back of the classroom.
Either he has some pressing engagement to attend to and wants to get this over and done with as quickly as possible or . . . there’s always the possibility that he isn’t totally averse to the idea of . . . fucking you.
But Hermione didn’t have time to entertain any further thoughts about his motivations as she was rushed through his living quarters and into a large and surprisingly luxurious bathroom before she’d barely had a chance to draw breath.
For some reason her eyes were immediately drawn to the spray nozzle at the head of the deep bath. Had she made the right choice? A host of sordid, nozzle-centric visions flooded her brain but were instantly dissipated by the quick, elegant sweeps of his hand that had the door closed and the shower taps on, a welcome plume of steam rising from behind the frosted glass door.
Hermione was already hyperventilating. As his commanding form loomed over her, a shroud of steam curling about his broad shoulders, he seemed both ominous and, she had to admit it, mouth-watering. Maybe it was just the steam rapidly humidifying the room and everything in it, but she definitely felt herself getting wet. Everywhere.
“I believe it may be your turn to do the honours,” he said, crossing his arms and moving away to lean against the edge of the wash basin.
He wants you to get your gear off, ‘Mione. Yes, I worked that out myself actually, thank you very much.
Hermione felt an inexplicable level of self-consciousness as she shrugged off her coat and threw it onto the ground beside her. He’d been on the receiving end of her close-up pussy vision on numerous occasions, but for some reason having him scrutinising her as she disrobed felt too intimate, too revealing. She decided not to look at him; it was easier that way.
Clumsily she undid her shirt buttons and slid the material off before tossing it aside. Then she quickly brought her hands to the back of her bra and unhooked it before inclining her shoulders ready to remove it. He suddenly cleared his throat.
Looking up, she met his searing gaze. It instantly parched her mouth, making it difficult for her to swallow. She leaned forward again to remove her bra but the slight turn of his head to the left stopped her. He raised one eyebrow slowly and she waited before lifting one hand to the strap on her shoulder. His chin lifted gradually with her hand and she could somehow tell that he approved. With lingering restraint, she slid the strap down the moist skin of her arm, watching him closely as he seemed to inhale the visual. For some reason, watching him drinking her in made her breath catch and, lips falling open, she continued the extremely slow reveal.
When both straps were hanging loose at her elbows, the satiny material clinging to the curve of her breasts she approached him, one languid step after another until she was directly before him. With an equally mischievous arch of the eyebrow, she made to remove the final silken barrier but instead turned her naked back to him and threw it away. She heard a loud exhalation through his nose and couldn’t tell if he was amused or frustrated. It didn’t matter for what she had planned.
Slowly backing up, one foot on either side of his outstretched legs, Hermione, continued until she felt her backside brush against his groin. Shit. That was just casual interest, wasn't it? Bringing her arms behind her she grasped his, pulling them out of their locked position across his chest before gently lifting both hands forward to her breasts.
Their simultaneous groans rent the clammy air as his hands closed over her soft mounds, nipples like glazed cherries rolling against his palms. She closed her hands over his, enjoying the feel of his supple movements under her fingers, kneading and grasping at her. Uncrossing his legs, he guided her backwards until the rigid column in his trousers was firmly ensconced between her denim-clad buttocks. Grinding slowly into her, his fingers simultaneously extruded each nipple into long, tingling peaks. And just when she thought she couldn’t take any more of his languorous stimulation, a feather-like caress fluttered along one shoulder. She didn’t need to look to know that his lips were there—softer than petals with a surprisingly hot tongue tipping out between.
“Severus,” she gasped, clutching tightly onto his writhing hands as the nips of his mouth and strokes of his tongue became more insistent. Then one hand left her breast and snaked down the front of her abdomen, which was still undulating with his rhythmic thrusts from behind. It took a fraction of a second for him to flick open her button, the smooth entry of his fingers down the inside of her jeans forcing her zipper down the rest of the way until his fingers were on her clitoris.
“Unnnhhhh,” she cried, her head tipping backwards to implore the ceiling as his teeth grazed her neck and a practised digit rubbed at her swollen nub.
She could feel a growl vibrating through his throat as he sucked at her more passionately, the fingers on her nipple mimicking the increasingly frantic pace of those on her clitoris.
“Oh, shit!” Hermione gasped, before a high pitched moan broke from her, her eyes squeezing closed as she reached behind herself, clawing at his thighs.
“She came, wanting me, her pussy sucking at me with jealous need,” he rumbled, his tongue flicking into her ear and screwing around inside it as his finger slid down to do the same to her pussy. The shock of the simultaneous intrusions finally dragged her over the edge.
“Uhhhh, uhhhh, uhhhh,” Hermione wailed as she convulsed against him, her whole body shuddering as the waves of orgasm tore through her. His breath gushed across her neck as he continued to stroke and thrust into her, drawing out her gasping release. And just when she thought she couldn’t be any more shocked, his hand trailed back up her abdomen, over the curve of her breast, sliding up her neck to her chin.
“And we supped upon her sweet nectar, avaricious and awash with desire.”
Then he slid his index finger into his mouth and middle finger into hers. As she lapped at her juices on one finger, he simultaneously licked and sucked at the other, his lips and tongue so tantalisingly close but never quite touching hers. It was the singularly most erotic act she’d ever engaged in, and for that reason she decided she was happy to miss out on the shower—and perhaps the final ever opportunity to have his cock inside her.
“That’s next,” he murmured.
It took a moment for his words to sink in before she suddenly withdrew and turned her face to his. “So you have been reading my thoughts!”
“You were voicing your thoughts out loud. Again.”
Oh. Fuck. She thought she’d given that up with the drink.
But then she realised—his finger had been inside her mouth the whole time. Hadn’t it?
Hermione frowned with a mixture of confusion and rekindling desire as his hands slipped down to slowly push the damp denim over the curve of her hips. There were clearly a lot of serious questions to be answered. But she reasoned that they could be asked after the most pressing issue was dealt with—that of his cock, which was still embedded in her backside. She suspected it could do with a good scrubbing and she had just the apparatus for the job.
Chapter 13: Eng Ongewollte Affair
Whilst she was enjoying the sensation of both smooth palms inching down her thighs, gradually shedding her tight denim skin, the thought of divesting him of his forbiddingly formal attire, peeling him like a ripe fruit was just too enticing for Hermione. Easing forward, she pushed her jeans and knickers down in one languorous thrust that left her bare buttocks waving gratuitously in front of his trousered cock. Standing, she kicked her clothing off together with her shoes before turning to instantly feel her bare skin being flayed by the heat of his predatory gaze. Clearly the bum wiggle had had the desired effect—even if it did leave her feeling like she was only moments from spontaneously combusting.
She approached him, smirking inwardly at her own audacity. Was he aware that the hunter was about to become the hunted? The vigorous nature of their prior union, combined with the steamy effusion that poured from the cubicle behind her left him looking lightly glazed and rather juicy. Those lips and the moist sheen dappling them were still calling strongly to her but there was no way that even the courageous Hermione could go there.
He remained leaning casually against the wash basin, legs crossed, not-so-casual erection jutting like a second spout, so Hermione took the opportunity to move in and straddle him, working her way up until her damp pussy was brushing his thighs. His hands were propped either side of the front rim of the basin, elbows hanging nonchalantly despite the swelling tension in his chest. Again, she was reminded of a panther, deceivingly placid but wild underneath, coiled and ready to spring.
She needed to interject before he made his move and she became the helpless prey—a role she would be more than willing to accept of course.
“She gravitated toward the object of her intrigue, unable to ignore the pull at her belly, drawing her forward with restless fingers,” Hermione murmured, skating her fingertips up the smooth front of his shirt, slithering over the contours of his lean muscles before stopping to grasp his top button.
“His eyes, the blackest of orbs, seemed to mirror her intrigue, glimmering faintly as the tables very slowly began to turn.”
The corner of Snape’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly before he dipped his chin toward his chest to further intimidate the fingers that might have been restless but were also shit-scared and trying their best not to tremble against his billowing breast.
Hermione released the top button and froze, still clutching the fabric. His eyes were locked with hers, his expression dangerous, daring her to proceed, to venture closer.
These are your words, ‘Mione. He’s accepted your offer of help. Now you need to follow through. Keep going!
It was true. He had been more than content to ply her pussy with phrase after phrase of beautifully turned prose. She might not be quite as talented a wordsmith as he was but she had a few linguistic tricks up her non-existent sleeve. And she was a Gryffindor after all. She’d survived his fantastical fingering and plundering pussyquakes. What more could he shock her with?
Steeling herself, she slid her fingers down to the next button and opened it before tentatively leaning in, exhaling a soft trail down his breast bone before placing her lips against the warm skin of his chest. His muscles strained beneath her trembling caress and she could imagine him gripping the basin. Whilst he had just fingered her to a very satisfying orgasm, she was struck by the fact that both of them were already hypersensitised again to one another’s tactile advances—it always felt like the very first time with him.
Was it because they didn’t really know each other at all—the thrill of the unknown? Or was it just a lingering symptom of their past association, the Professor/student relationship that had never completely resolved? Or could it be the more unsettling notion that they were genuinely intrigued by what they were discovering about one another?
Hermione had been trying to fight such a suggestion since he’d left her floating on the edge of oblivion the previous day. But at that moment, snaking out her tongue to lick the tip of one tight nipple, she knew that she had never been more attracted to another human being as she was to the man who was now pulsing with powerful restraint beneath her. She might well have him all wrong but Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that Snape wanted her as much as she wanted him. She also knew that he could easily turn her into a pile of limp Gryffindor feathers as he’d threatened to do way back at the beginning, but was clearly holding back, letting her explore.
Confidence growing with that thought, as well as the intoxicating proximity to his faintly rippling skin, she undid further buttons, planting wet kisses down his deliciously twitching abdomen as her legs buckled under her, her pussy sliding down his wool-clad legs. And when the brief dip of her tongue into his naval elicited a guttural groan dredged up from somewhere around his bollocks, she finally took the opportunity to grasp his trousers and pull the buttons apart, reaching into the folds to deliver his magnificent cock from its less-than-worthy confines. She could think of a much more appropriate place for it. Actually more than one.
You know what happened last time, ‘Mione!
Yes, but he’s nowhere near my pussy now, I can focus on—Merlin!
She suddenly realised that he’d begun gently sliding his knee against her pussy, rubbing at her clit.
Clearing her throat, she grasped his silken cock in both hands and lifted her head, stroking the tip of her nose against his length as she addressed him.
“She welcomed the velvety warmth of his shaft, firm and pulsing with his lifeblood.”
Eyes not deviating from his, she lifted her chin and licked over the smooth head, lingering on the slit, his jaw going slack and his eyelids shuttering as she increased the wriggling pressure before sliding away.
“She felt it as a gnawing hunger in her core, a desire to worship and please him through his cock. To suck his seed out for herself. For her own gratification.”
This time her words clearly got to him and a soft moan escaped his throat as his brow furrowed. Her eyes closed as she took him in her mouth. For some reason she felt more prepared and managed to get him deeper inside her. Beneath her, she felt him easing his thighs apart and then his hands were on her—one grasping the back of her head and the other against her cheek, guiding her. She could have really done with the help last time so was now more than receptive to his inflections and ministrations, letting him move her up and down his cock as he reciprocated with shallow measured thrusts into her mouth.
And as she felt him stretching her, testing her limits, she just knew he was enacting her classroom fantasy from the oral sex chapter. The thought made her groan and suck at him harder.
“I’m finding your mouth more and more agreeable,’ he breathed above her, his fingers curling around her chin.
Yep, straight from that fucking chapter.
Hermione couldn’t take it anymore. She was more than open to the role reversal but deep down she knew that he was orchestrating everything anyway. He knew what she wanted, how she would respond and could play with her until she’d been reduced to a babbling fool. He wasn’t cold though, not distant nor objective. Far from it. He was as open and vulnerable and committed to the act as she, but without the embarrassment, without the fear. She was desperate to know where it hailed from.
But she was even more desperate to have his cock inside her and no longer cared about how and where it happened. He’d been quite forthcoming with everything she’d suggested so far but it had all been done under the flimsy guise of furthering their writing for the book. She wanted to believe that the book wasn’t his only motivation, but at the same time she didn’t feel ready to shatter the façade in case she discovered that it really was the only thing holding their unusual relationship together.
Releasing his cock from her swollen lips, she clutched the rough fabric of his trousers, dragging them down to his ankles before pulling off his boots and tossing them over her shoulders. Standing before him, arms held limply by her sides, breasts shuddering slightly with her laboured breathing she finally spoke,
“I think it might be time to . . . address the water scene.” Her voice sounded strained and more than a little desperate.
With a single downward stroke of his nose he concurred, but it looked like a formality, like he’d been waiting for her to give up on her attempts to seduce him and return to the comfort of working under his practised tutelage.
He reached out with both hands, placing them lightly on her thighs before sliding them in a prickling caress up to her hips, then around to hook under her buttocks. Lifting her easily, he brought her onto his lap, wrapping her thighs around his waist and her pussy lips around the shaft of his cock.
“Merlin’s fucking balls,” she moaned, closing her eyes as his unyielding measure seared between her lips, grinding her clitoris like a pestle of flesh.
She heard the chuckle grinding deep in his throat. It wasn’t a sound she’d ever heard before and it shocked her enough for her to prise open her lids to catch the end of a sexy smirk. He was clearly rather pleased with himself even if he was pretending not to be. He continued to rock against her but held her hips tilted forward so her upper body hung away from him. The way he was stimulating her was doing all sorts of things to her face that she would much prefer to have buried against his shoulder. Instead she was propped at an angle for him to appraise her, observing every flicker, twinge and furrow, catching every sigh and whimper that fluttered from her lips. He just seemed to enjoy watching her.
“Professor—Severus . . . please,” she moaned, her hands clutching at his biceps, which were straining rhythmically as he dragged her hips into him.
“Your words, Miss Granger,” he admonished.
The only words screaming through her mind at that point were ‘Fuck me!’ but she suspected he wanted a little more than that.
“She felt his cock stirring at her core, tugging at her need, enticing her to finally open up to him. And she did so. Willingly.”
She couldn’t make it any more fucking obvious than that.
And it seemed to be enough. He finally stood with her still wrapped around him and approached the steaming cubicle, sliding the door aside before stepping under the roaring spray. The hot blast that pounded her head and shoulders, rolling like thunder in her ears as she clung to his strong arms, made her suddenly feel like she’d stepped into another life—one without misery, without pain or poverty, without a past to disown. She felt warm, protected, alive and . . . wanted. She also felt like she might be setting herself up for a calamitous fall. But she intended to get in one hell of a fuck before it happened.
And it started, as all good things do, with him dropping her to the tiled floor, thrusting her against the cold glass and pushing her legs open to slide two fingers into her pussy. His other hand was on her cheek, his thumb prising insistently at the corner of her mouth before entering to stroke her tongue in time with his thrusts into her hole. She sucked at he plunged, mainly because it was deliciously erotic and tasted like him but also because she wouldn’t have to give him too many words while it was in there; her brain was, after all, rapidly turning into warm mush.
She felt his knee hook under hers, sliding her leg up the glass, exposing her further before inserting a third finger, stretching her with slow, deep ingressions aimed at preparing her for the Colossus of Cocks, which was still very much the elephant in the cubicle. Would she actually be able to fit him inside her? She’d been with guys of all sizes before but this was, without a doubt, the most significant—in every way.
He worked on her pussy, steadily and with great patience until she was heavily lubricated and gasping from every orifice then, to her surprise, he suddenly spun her around, hooking one arm under each thigh before lifting her off the tiles and placing her feet against the glass.
She briefly wondered what it would look like to someone who walked in and saw the impression of two feet half way up the shower wall, before realising that they would probably be more concerned by the sound she was now making as the head of his cock squeezed into the tight rim of her pussy, gradually burying itself inside her.
“Severus!” she whined, her head pitching back against him as she dug her fingernails into his forearms.
“Relax.” That low rumble in her ear instantly melted the tension as he continued to ease his way in. She was already feeling ridiculously full but knew he was probably only half way or less. Her pussy entrance burned but her insides were very much enjoying making him welcome, shifting, squeezing and adapting to accommodate him. Hermione felt like sending some sort of message to her twat not to get too excited with the interior re-design—he wasn’t moving in for good.
But fuck it really did feel good!
Eyes closed, she leaned into him, letting him do all the work of incrementally filling her while she did all the work of etching this divine memory into her mind for future masturbation reference. It might have to last her a hell of a long time.
After squeezing a long train of measured thrusts into her, she finally felt his head butt against her cervix, a jolt that felt so deep and complete she would have been happy for him to just remain there, completely still, holding her, filling her, the steady stream of water cascading over them.
At least she thought that was what she wanted until he started moving. And then he redefined what happiness was.
One thing she realised about a massive cock was that it didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. It was all there, every bump and ridge, reaming against her walls. And it felt fucking incredible. He started off deep, working her core and nudging her cervix to shake the very depths of her womanhood.
And her moans seemed to come from the same place—deep and raw, reverberating around the small glass chamber against the fading background patter. Finally releasing her nails from his forearms, she slid her hands down to his buttocks, feeling his taut muscles working to drive his cock into her with increasingly lengthy thrusts.
“Shit, that’s good,” she murmured, marvelling at how incredible it felt to be at both the external origin and internal termination point of each beautifully timed swing of his hips.
“Is that your entire literary contribution, Miss Granger?” he murmured, his lips against the shell of her ear.
She groaned as he thrust deeper again. How did he expect her to contribute anything meaningful when she felt her innards about to capsize—if that was even a thing?
“She . . . she . . . uhhhh.”
He’d suddenly shifted angles and was forcing the ridge of his head even more emphatically against her G-spot.
“Do you need more . . . inspiration?” His voice felt so close, almost cosseted in the chamber of her ear.
She nodded dumbly.
Right, ‘Mione it’s your own fault if you explode after this.
He started muttering low rhythmic incantations but it wasn’t until something suddenly snaked into the cubicle that she realised what was happening. The spray nozzle from the bath had entered the shower cubicle and was now weaving between her legs like a cobra. He guided it with a constant stream of utterances and as she watched it in wonder, he uttered the final incantation which caused it to blast a solid jet of spray against her clitoris.
“Oh . . . my . . . God!”
Hermione felt him brace against her as her legs involuntarily jerked against the glass with the shock. But it wasn’t long before he was plunging into her with increased vigour, his balls slapping against her pussy as he bottomed out. Amongst the moans and grunts signifying his effort to fuck her even more comprehensively than she’d hoped, he would occasionally mutter a word to adjust the position and angle of the undulating head to pummel all around and over her throbbing clit.
She was surprised she’d lasted this long. It was probably why he’d made her come earlier. If he’d intended this type of treatment, he must have known she would have been down for the count in no time flat. As it was, the pressure building inside her was tremendous and, judging by the grunts that were emanating from him in quick succession, he was also gearing up to blow.
She grasped his buttocks even tighter as his muscles jerked rhythmically under her fingers, his cock delving into her constricting channel as her clitoris was relentlessly peppered with the stinging spray.
“Gods! Severus,” she cried out as her whole body seized before jerking and writhing with her seismic convulsions around his pumping cock. She felt his rigid column even more strongly as her muscles cramped and squeezed against it, sucking greedily at him. And then she heard the sound that made her orgasm surge again—his guttural roar as he came inside her, his cock spilling its seed, over and over again, warm liquid desire flooding into her depths. And despite the uncontrollable waves that continued to roll through her, she felt herself trying to hang onto it, to draw his come up inside her and keep it there. Why? She couldn’t even say.
And she also couldn’t say why, when she finally dropped to the tiles and turned to look at him, all she could manage was, “Sorry about the words. I hope I was of some . . . help.”
She was equally unable to explain his response—his palm sliding down her cheek and then away.
“You have been . . . most . . . helpful.”
Something about the way he said it, wistful, almost sad, made her wonder exactly what he meant.
Chapter 14: Mae Damweiniol Affair
When Hermione returned to her flat it was dark and cold. Her hair was still damp, driving the chill even deeper into her bones. She could have easily cast a drying charm but was intent upon holding onto the shower memory for as long as possible—although the sultry warmth was becoming increasingly difficult to conjure as her brain rattled around on the rickshaw of her chattering teeth.
She found herself ravenously hungry and was more grateful than she could have expressed for the bounty of eggs, bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms that she discovered inside her fridge. He’d clearly bought way more than required for yesterday’s breakfast. She sighed as she leaned against the sagging door. He’d known she was too proud to ask him for anything and so it had all been done under the guise of his own needs.
As she began cooking, her mind circled around her increasingly complicated mental image of Severus Snape. It was less a collage and more of a Frankenstein of impressions that were cobbled together from her years of interactions with him. What she discovered, however, was that the bitter resentment she’d held toward her Professor as a student no longer married with the person she’d come to know over the past week. He may be doing an extremely good job of sustaining a cunningly conceived façade to gain Merlin knows what from this predicament. Or perhaps he really was a genuinely kind person thrown, like her, into an entirely bizarre situation—the only difference being that he had a shitload of secrets and she had virtually none, not after her drunken ramblings divulged pretty well all of them. But, she reasoned, what else could she expect from a former Death Eater and spy?
And therein lay the problem. His entire past was built around deception. He’d been incredibly good at it. He had to be. Although not good enough, as it turned out, not to be eventually recognised as a traitor and almost killed. Could she have seen through his deception? Or had he been slipping into her mind the entire time, using her thoughts and emotions to manipulate her?
Hermione found herself staring at the bacon as it spat and sizzled in the pan. In reality, his generous stockpile of food would likely last longer than their relationship anyway, which was destined to terminate at 5 p.m. the next day—to be handed over to Mr Dooley for him to place upon a plinth for unsuspecting visitors to raise an eyebrow at upon passing. An increasingly dusty symbol of what once was.
She was crying again. She wanted to blame the detoxification potion for her highly emotional state but it seemed that this time it was entirely reasonable for her to indulge in such a deep state of sadness. What they had shared felt special—to her at least. Like a new chapter in her life had just begun, only to be cut short, left unfinished—she would no longer have the protagonists with which to continue writing it. She’d go back to where she left off before the book, without options, trapped in a life she hated, a million miles away from the only people who really loved her and who didn’t even know that she existed.
Severus rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips before drawing them down his nose, inhaling deeply. It was late—probably too late to owl his completed chapters to her. He’d send them in the morning. Gathering the pages of parchment from the desk in his living quarters, he placed them inside a large envelope with copies of his ink drawings. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that the floral images belonged in the book. It wasn’t the quality, he knew them to be of a reasonable standard but the content didn’t really seem to fit. Still, Miss Granger had been adamant and an adamant Miss Granger had never been someone to easily dissuade.
He ignored the heaviness in his chest. It would go away. Eventually. As he began to extinguish lights in preparation for retiring, he remembered the assignments he’d been marking in the classroom when she’d unexpectedly arrived. She’d been a welcome distraction. Sighing, he willed himself to let another wave pass before continuing out the door to his classroom desk.
As he gathered up the assignments, he noticed another small bundle of parchment sitting on the corner of the desk. Unfurling it, he read the title: “The Magic of Hand Jobs.”
A wry smile captured his lips. She must have left it there on her way out. No doubt it was inspired by some lucky sod she’d wanked off under the Quidditch stands.
He began to read:
The room was a lifeless grey, the light almost too dim to make out his still form, deathly pale except for the swathe of dark hair, an inky stain against the starched sheets of the hospital bed. She entered, quietly, tentatively, uncertain of herself now that she’d finally been granted access. Would she even be received? Or would he consider her another who had come only for the fascination of witnessing the fallen? Perhaps he already knew her secret. That she’d seen him in this state before. She’d been there. And had left him to die. Alone.
Her throat tightened at the sad irony. Despite being alive, breathing gently in this quiet room, he was still alone. Drawing up a chair, she sat by his side, observing the stillness of his milky eyelids, wondering if he was unconscious or merely asleep. One hand lay limp and open by her clenched knees and so she took it, grasped it in her clammy fingers. She felt guilty for forcing a familiarity that didn’t exist between them but she needed it, she was there for forgiveness after all.
He didn’t stir, his slow breaths sighing under a thin cotton gown. His skin was warm. It was the first time she could ever remember touching him. She’d observed and even admired these hands on innumerable occasions. She’d witnessed them confident, efficient, elegant and even deadly. But she’d never seen them like this—exposed as he would never have allowed them to be, completely vulnerable.
Amongst the bottles and jars on the cabinet beside her, she noticed a lotion. She released his hand to pick it up. Dispensing a generous amount into her cupped hand, she returned, starting by pressing her palm against his, their fingers intertwining as she rubbed her heel in rhythmic circles against him. Then she slid up to unfurl his limp fingers, coating them with the slippery fluid, then dragging her fingers down between his until she reached the delicate webbing, which she massaged gently with her fingertips. Pressing both thumbs into his palm, she worked the muscles there before grasping his index finger firmly and squeezing it as she gradually slid toward the tip.
This final action almost seemed to have the effect of an animating potion upon him, his finger twitching to life beneath her touch. She glanced at his face which remained still but, as she grasped each finger in turn, they began to move, stretching and searching, gently stroking at her when they encountered her skin. By the time she’d finished, his hand was exploring hers, feeling her, edging along her nails, trailing over the lines and curves as if he was somehow trying to identify her by touch alone.
She couldn’t help the small smile that curved her lips as his thumb began rubbing slow circles on the back of her hand, gentle and reassuring. She had intended to be the one to comfort him with her touch, not the other way round. However, she did feel her heart growing lighter, even if his efforts were misplaced, enacted upon the person he had mistakenly assumed her to be.
Gently pulling from his grasp, she shifted to the other side of his bed and began massaging the lotion into his other hand. As with the first, her ministrations appeared to enliven him, his fingers returning her caresses until he interlocked his fingers with hers, then slid his thumb down to lightly stroke the inside of her palm.
She gasped, shocked by her body’s response to the sensation. Her breath shuddered out as he continued to slide with tender restraint over her sensitive flesh. She’d never considered him in that way at all, or at least she thought she hadn’t, but there she sat, flushed and tingling knowing that she should leave but very much needing to stay.
Eyes still closed, his other hand came over to join the first, encapsulating her small hand in his before drawing her toward him. She was forced to stand, leaning over his body as he brought her palm to his face. Running the tip of his nose up the side of it, he inhaled deeply before planting a soft kiss in the centre. She moaned quietly in response, feeling her legs trembling beneath her.
Before she knew what was happening, he had cupped one hand around hers and used the other to push down the bedcovers. Then he began moving her hand down with his. Not forcing, but guiding it to where he had pulled up his gown to reveal the other part of his body that seemed to have become animated by her touch. At least that was something that had managed to come through his terrible ordeal unscathed.
She bit her lip as he wrapped her small hand around the soft skin of his cock, curling his own hand around hers before caressing her fingers reassuringly with his thumb. She had no idea who he thought she was. Would that person have done this to him? In the end, she realised that she didn’t really care. She was willing to do this for him. In fact, she felt that it was the least she could do.
Starting slowly, his hand guiding hers, she stroked his silken shaft. His chest filled and then released a long deep breath as if he were finally liberating a tide of tension he’d been holding onto for too long. She started at the base with rhythmic caresses, aided by his supple fingers before he slid her higher toward his head, dragging her palm over the tip where she felt herself being coated with a sticky trail of his pre-cum. Far from being repulsed, however, she found herself feeling so incredibly turned on she had to bite her lip even harder to stop herself from moaning aloud.
He loosened her grip slightly and sped up her movements, sliding his skin smoothly over its iron core. Then he began thrusting his hips in time and she found herself doing very little of the work, just being there, her layer of fine skin against his velvet. He groaned deeply and his chest started working harder. She grasped him more tightly and jerked in time with his thrusts until she could see his balls tightening.
He grimaced before releasing a breathy moan that was more like a deliverance than anything else, then his cock began to jerk inside her, a fountain of come spurting over both of their hands, shooting out strings of creamy release until they were both coated in thick trails.
Breathing heavily, she could only watch as he brought her hand back to his mouth and placed a chaste kiss against her knuckles, contrasting starkly with the come that was slicked across it.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Do you forgive me for leaving you?” she whispered.
“Of course,” he responded, sliding his fingers up her arm and shoulder to her face where he placed two fingers on her cheek, tracking the tears that were falling. “But only if you promise to never leave me again.”
The sheets of parchment dropped from Severus’ fingers, landing on the cold dungeon floor, rumpled and tear-stained.
Chapter 15: Vahingossa Affair
Hermione was on the verge of drifting off when a loud knock jolted her awake. She glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. There was only one person she wanted to see at that time of night. In fact, there was only one person she wanted to see at all. What if it wasn’t him? She grabbed her wand and approached the door. The knock came again.
“Who is it?” she called.
Fuck, ‘Mione. Just cast Alohomora from a distance and get ready with Stupefy. You mightn’t have cast very much in the recent past but they’re both pretty fucking basic. Even a first year could. . .
Yes alright, alright.
And that’s just want she did. At least the first part. But as soon as the lock popped, he was through the door and upon her before she even had a chance to blink.
Only just registering that it was him before her lips were crushed under his, she instantly felt one hand rake into her hair while the other gripped her buttocks through her flimsy nightie, pressing her against his body as he consumed her in ravenous mouthfuls.
“Severus?” she managed to gasp between his hot lunges. He responded by moaning and thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Clearly he wasn’t in the mood for talking. She was good with that. With a wave toward the door, he slammed and locked it before lifting her against his groin and carrying her to the dining table. Sitting her on the edge, he continued to knead her buttocks with one hand as he devoured her mouth, lapping and sucking, forcing her to arch her neck to meet him.
Dragging her nightie up, he slid one hand beneath it to skim over her warm curves, cupping her breast as she moaned into his mouth.
“Fuck me, Severus,” she whispered against his lips. With a deep groan, he pulled her toward him, tearing her nightie off one end and her knickers off the other in successive yanks before spreading her wide and roughly pulling his fly open to release his cock. Sliding his fingers around the base, he wielded it like the incredibly impressive weapon that it was.
Hermione writhed against the table in anticipation. He looked utterly delicious—hair tousled, lips swollen from their impassioned wrangling, and his fleshy cock slicing out from his impeccably tailored suit like some lascivious imposter. It looked so wrong but oh so right.
Grasping her by the hips, he pulled her forward until her buttocks were hanging over the edge, then lifted one of her legs so that it rested against his shoulder; the other he held with his hand grasping the underside of her ankle as he positioned himself at her entrance.
Smouldering eyes cauterising hers, he slowly pressed his firm head into her pussy. She welcomed the exquisite sting of him stretching her but could tell by the intensity of his gaze, the clench of his jaw, that he wouldn’t be holding back for long. He pulled out and drove in deeper as she gripped the edges of her small table, her mouth open in a wail of mounting need.
“I hope you’re ready for this,” he growled, his lip curling up slightly.
She returned his gaze with equal intensity, jaw firming in defiance as she muttered hoarsely, “Give it to me, you sexy fucker.”
And he did.
“Oh, shiiiiiit!” She squeezed the word out as he slowly withdrew before slamming home to the hilt.
Grasping one hip, he leveraged it to control the tilt of her pelvis while he used the hand on her ankle to open her up further to him. It was like her pussy was some sort of manual contraption that he happened to be an expert at piloting.
Attempting to maintain control but rapidly losing the battle, Hermione watched him through shuttered eyelids—hair jolting forward with each thrust, teeth bared, breath hissing like escaping steam between them. He clearly had something he needed to get off his chest. Or off his cock. And she was more than willing to be on the receiving end. In fact, she felt more open and receptive than she’d ever been in her life. His cock was like a red hot poker forcefully plumbing her depths, but rather than feeling invaded, it was like he was completing her. The missing part. A snug fit, granted, but definitely a piece that was meant to be in her—with her. Something she would miss. Sorely. Definitely sorely, fuck!!
He had taken it up a notch. Clearly he wasn’t hanging around for the slow tease this time. Rather, Hermione felt herself being rammed across the table, forcing her to cling on even tighter to stop herself from sliding off the other end. Each snap of his hips was accompanied by a grunt that was mounting in volume and pitch. She could hear the depth of his need to fuck her. His physical and emotional intensity were overwhelming and Hermione could feel herself building even before his thumb slid around from her hip and began strumming her throbbing clitoris.
He was pistoning, fast and deep, holding her free leg wide to maximise his penetration. He’d already put one load deep inside her today, clearly he was going for a new personal best.
Hermione’s moans filled the air as he pumped into her swollen chamber. She was teetering on the precipice of another pussy-shattering orgasm and was finally glad that, for the first time, she could watch his face. His heavily lidded eyes rolled back and his parted lips shuddered as he squeezed out one word, “Hermione”, causing her entire body to flood with warmth.
Grinding his pelvis into her as his cock juddered and convulsed, her pussy was finally jolted over the edge by the vigorous twitching inside her.
“Severussss,” she cried as her muscles joined in, squeezing and milking his emancipating cock as it injected stream after stream of viscous release into the depths of her belly. He continued to gently tickle her clitoris as the waves rolled through her, fluttering and convulsing until her entire body collapsed, spent.
Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the semi-darkness.
“Was that for the book?” she asked in a small voice.
“No,” he responded hoarsely. “That was for me.”
“And this,” he gently lifted her from the table, his cock still embedded inside her, “is for you.”
Turning, he headed for her bedroom, managing to divest himself of all clothing on the way with a mixture of magic and force while she remained wrapped around him.
Somehow he succeeded in lowering them both onto the bed without slipping out of her, and then he embarked upon a journey of the most delectable, sensuous kisses Hermione had ever known. In fact, it felt more like an oral worship of her lips, face and neck, leaving her gasping like she’d just engaged in a spot of deep sea diving, and him with another deliciously tumescent member jostling inside the dewy chamber of her pussy.
Rolling so that they were lying on their sides facing one another, he slid his knee between her legs and dragged one of her thighs up to hook across his hip. Then he began fucking her with such restrained, indulgently-sensual strokes that her chest tightened with the sense of being thoroughly and purposively gratified, almost cherished. As his cock caressed her insides in long, languid strokes, his tongue entered her mouth, mimicking the delectable ingressions of his member until she lost all sense of herself, drifting upon a time set only to his rhythm. Her pussy, entranced by the hypnotic gyrations of his hips, seemed to forget it was even having sex, relaxing into his erotic massage to such an extent that she was actually surprised when she discovered that she was on the verge of coming again.
At no time did his pace seem to change, his succulent tongue continuing to lap into her mouth which was now open and moaning, the gradual build-up having taken more of a toll than she’d realised on her reserves of restraint.
“Severus, I need you . . .” she mumbled, barely coherent, “. . . faster.”
In response, he moved slower, drawing out each thrust at such an agonising rate she felt her muscles going into meltdown. Her tongue was captured by a similar paralytic tension and she murmured something unintelligible as he held her there on the tremulous edge of orgasm for far longer than she ever thought possible. The emotion that welled within her was somewhere between laughing and crying and as she held her breath, shuddering on the tightrope, a hair-width between stasis and a churning chasm of release, she had a flash of something, déjà vu—she had been here before, felt this, with someone, someone . . . then he inched in, his bulging head stroking up her swollen channel, and she was there.
“Unnnhhhhh!” she cried out, her entire body convulsing as she rode out the seismic contractions that seemed to capture every fibre of her being. Her hyper-sensitised nerves were zapping like fireworks, causing her to writhe and buck in his embrace, her breath bursting out in high moans that sounded like crying. Maybe she was. The twitches and jerks continued to tic through her core, grabbing at the slick member that was still ensheathed within her. He held her as she gradually came down, shuddering against his chest.
She had no idea why she felt so emotional. Perhaps she was just exhausted. It had been a tumultuous week after all. And it would all be coming to an end in a matter of hours.
But when she finally looked up into his black eyes she saw something that shocked her. A depth of feeling that seemed to mirror her own. Was it possible that he felt the same way about her as she did about him? That they had, indeed, shared something special? He’d certainly come there with a purpose. And she suspected she knew why.
“I’m guessing you read my chapter?” she murmured, reaching up and tangling her fingers absently around a lock of his hair.
“Yes,” he sighed, resting his hand on her hip. “I was quite . . . stunned to discover that you . . . remembered.”
“Remembered?” A puzzled frown captured her brow. “To write the chapter?”
His eyes searched hers for several long moments before they slipped away. “Yes. That you remembered . . . to write the chapter.”
Chapter 16: An Accidental Hoʻokolokolo
Hermione stared at him.
Didn’t he understand the point of what she’d written? The hand job narrative was her way of explaining the guilt she’d felt at having left him to die on the floor of the Shrieking Shack—she was asking for his forgiveness. And if he didn’t understand, why had he burst in here like a whirlwind of fucking?
She’d assumed that what had just transpired between them was his way of telling her that he understood—his expression of forgiveness. So if that wasn’t the case, why was he here? To congratulate her on completing another fucking chapter?
“You do realise that I was writing about forgiveness don’t you?” she asked, trying to capture his eyes which seemed to be focused on a point above her head.
He didn’t look at her but sighed before muttering quietly, “I know.”
She dropped the lock of his hair that she’d been threading through her fingers. There was something strangely familiar about the sensation, about lying next to him, about . . . everything.
What had he said to her? That he was stunned to discover she remembered? What had she remembered? Was there a clue in the chapter she’d written? Something he thought had really happened? Maybe he’d been in a delirium in the hospital. Had he dreamed that someone had come to see him? Did he think that it was her? How was she going to tell him that she hadn’t set eyes on him since that terrible day—not until he’d turned up in the museum all these years later.
How devastating for him if he’d been imagining all this time that something had happened between them. Maybe that was why he’d been so rude to her in the museum. Perhaps he was embarrassed?
“Why did you think that I was writing about a memory?” she finally asked. “Was there something I wrote that was . . . familiar?”
Perhaps he was experiencing the same déjà vu that she was. A sense that something had happened before. Even when it hadn’t.
When his eyes returned to hers, they were so full of pain that she instantly put her hand on his chest in concern. “What is it? What happened?”
Then she watched as the most inexplicable thing occurred. A tear—just like that day in the Shack—overflowed from his brimming eyes and slid down the bridge of his nose.
“Severus, tell me!” She grabbed him by the upper arm, shaking him.
More tears fell as his long lashes closed.
What was it? Had he done something? Had she done something?
He brought his hand from her hip to his face where he rubbed his fingers into his closed eyes as if trying to wring out the tears.
“Fuck,” he whispered before sniffing loudly.
Hermione was at a loss watching him. She was shocked but also extremely saddened to see this tremendously powerful man breaking down before her. She knew it must be something significant. Did it involve her?
“Did I do something?” she asked quietly.
He huffed and gave a slight shake of his head. She couldn’t tell if it was reassurance or an expression of denial. And despite it, she could still feel the panic rising. What could be so fucking bad?
“Severus, I’m really scared that I’ve done something to hurt you,” she said, gently pulling his hand away from his face. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
He suddenly rolled away from her to face the ceiling, one arm draped across his chest as though in physical pain. He took several deep breaths like he was working up to something and when he spoke his voice was hoarse with emotion.
“We were lovers . . . before.”
Hermione took a gasping breath as she felt the walls of her small room collapsing, caving in on her. Rolling away from him, she clutched her arms to her own chest as the crushing continued—there didn’t seem to be enough air.
“Hermione.” He grasped her shoulder and pulled her toward him; his hand slid to her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I genuinely thought your memories had returned. There were so many references . . . in your writing . . . in how you communicated . . . I just thought . . . “
Hermione shook her head as she stared at him. If they’d been lovers, why couldn’t she remember any of it?
“Did I have an accident?” she breathed. “Why would I forget?”
That same expression of intense pain crossed his face. “You asked me to Obliviate every memory of us . . . I did as you asked.”
Her mind was spinning, caught in a whirlpool of emotions—it was impossible for her to comprehend what he was saying.
“Severus, tell me everything. Please. I need to know,” she muttered urgently, feeling a welling sense of loss that her subconscious clearly understood but her mind was yet to grasp. It was that same emptiness she’d tried to fill with alcohol these past years. This was going to be hell.
His eyes searched her face. His expression was one of such sadness, Hermione was almost loathe to put him through it but she absolutely needed to know, for her own sanity as much as anything.
“If I tell you, you will ask me to Obliviate you again. This entire week will no longer exist for you,” he rasped, swallowing with difficulty.
“But it will for you,” Hermione completed what he was clearly trying to tell her.
“As does all the rest. Everything.”
How could he know how she would respond? Perhaps she’d grown up, matured since then. She’d certainly detoxified. And they’d spent an intense and overwhelmingly enjoyable few days together. She really was very fond of him. Why would she want to forget him forever?
“Severus, you must know that I have feelings for you. In only this short time. Perhaps more than can be explained by our current circumstances. It’s possible that part of me does remember. My body certainly responds to you, overwhelmingly, and it did right from the beginning, that very first day we were together. And your presence conjures extremely intense feelings. But you know I can’t remain like this. Knowing in my heart but not in my mind—the same torture that my mother is enduring. Without the truth there can be no future for us—if there ever was to be one.”
As she watched, his eyes brimmed with tears again.
“I just don’t want to lose you again. Not after all this time.” His chest heaved.
Hermione found herself crying with him—without a clue as to why but feeling the intensity of his pain and knowing she was somehow responsible.
“Severus, tell me about the hospital,” she finally murmured, reaching out and running her fingers along his trembling lips.
He was quiet a long time; eventually his breathing became less ragged. He seemed to compose himself but his face had become dead, almost emotionless.
“That was the beginning. That’s when it all started. You came to see me and . . . that’s what happened. Exactly that. And you returned many times. We grew . . . closer. We did more . . . shared more. I attribute much of my physical recovery to you . . . But not only that—also my emotional recovery. I don’t know how I would have come through it without you.”
Hermione felt dazed. Like he was retelling a story about a stranger. She remembered none of it and yet had written about it. But for her it was a fantasy drawn from her imagination, vivid but certainly never experienced.
“How long were we . . . together?”
“One year. Twelve days.”
Hermione bit her lip. His statements were blunt yet revealed a world of hurt, of loss. And she didn’t know what to do with her own feelings. She had no memory, no visual, no understanding to attach them to but they were genuine and so intense that they felt like a ball of fire in her chest.
“Did people know about us? Were we open about it?”
“No. No one knew. We wished to keep it between ourselves. We were unsure of how it would be received. You were seeking an apprenticeship at the time.”
“An apprenticeship? With whom?”
Hermione held her head. “Are you telling me that I was on an apprenticeship pathway and somehow I’ve ended up spending years supervising dusty bits of junk in a fucking museum?”
“You wanted it all Obliviated. On that day in the museum when you told me you’d been untraceable before, you were talking about what remained after the Obliviation. That year we were together—much of it was spent in my chambers, other times you stayed with me at my home in Spinner’s End. When all off those memories were removed and a few inserted, all that remained was a year of apparent displacement, hazy references to locations and events—untraceable because they never existed.
Hermione’s head was thumping. She had deliberately chosen to fuck up her entire life. Why? And why had he let her?
“So that doesn’t really explain why you were such a bastard to me? If we’d shared all of this wonderful history, why were you such a total fucking prick in the museum that day?” Hermione could feel herself getting more and more agitated. “And why did you destroy the book for that matter? It was done deliberately, wasn’t it?”
He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and sighed heavily.
“We had a more recent history. Not so wonderful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your only memories of me after the Obliviation were those from Hogwarts and clearly you didn’t hold me in particulaly high regard as a student. In fact, it was more than obvious that you despised me. Every time I encountered you, it seemed to be worse. Or perhaps I just took it increasingly badly. Either way, you would seek to demean or belittle me in some way. The last time it was a drunken rant in the Leaky Cauldron about what a fucking bastard I’d been. Of course I Obliviated all of those encounters too.”
“Why?” Hermione crossed her arms. “What right did you have to take away my memories?”
“You made me promise.” Severus looked forlorn, as though he didn’t quite understand it either. “When our relationship ended, you stated that if we ever saw each other again, I was to remove all memory of it. You didn’t want me in your thoughts ever again.”
“And what made you do it? I wouldn’t have even remembered that I’d asked it of you.” Hermione was struggling to understand how this man who excelled in superior snidery and degradation could be so apparently weak-willed. What could have compelled him to act in such a way?
He swallowed and his forehead creased again in that look of despair that was becoming all too familiar.
“You said if I loved you that I would do it. And so I did. Always.”
Fuck! Hermione wasn’t sure how much more she could take. These revelations. His pain. She was feeling it so viscerally. More than she could explain.
“So why are we lying here together now? Why do I have a week of the two of us in my memory? Are you planning to Obliviate me again? To fuck me up even more?” Hermione choked on the words. “Why didn’t you do it back in the museum, instead of putting me through all this again?”
Severus’ face was guilt-ridden. “I made a mistake. The accident with the book. There were too many witnesses. And then there was the problem of the book itself that couldn’t be easily explained even if the memory was Obliviated. And,” he looked down at the bedcovers, “I was also angry with you—hurt by the way you made me feel, the promises you’d forced upon me. And despite it all, you still hated me. I wanted you to feel some of the same. I didn’t know that you worked at the museum, but in some ways I wasn’t surprised to see you. It had become a reasonably common event for you to somehow turn up exactly at the wrong moment for me.”
“But you were going to leave me to take the blame for something that you had obviously done!” Hermione cried indignantly. “Didn’t that concern you at all?”
“I thought you might have had a better . . . relationship with your employer.”
“Really? What sort of relationship?” Hermione’s jaw firmed.
“Oh, I don’t know. One where he might use his insurance to pay for a damaged artefact rather than force his employee to pay out of her own pocket.”
“Did you think I was fucking Mr Dooley?” Hermione’s face flushed with anger.
Severus sighed. “I had no idea what you were doing in your private life. I’d seen you all over all sorts of people.”
“So that was where the ‘ankles behind the ears’ line came from was it?” Hermione sneered. “You thought I was a slut!”
He rubbed his face with both hands. “I didn’t think you were a slut. I didn’t know you any more. I really didn’t want to know you any more. I’d become accustomed to thinking of you as simply a past student—one I didn’t have a particularly good relationship with. But then . . . you came up with this fucking ridiculous collaboration. Initially I only indulged the idea because I wasn’t willing to foot the entire bill. I believed Mr Dooley was enough of a prick to chase me for it and after recent . . . expenses . . . I have little to spare.” He sighed. “I must admit I was also interested to see if any further copies of the book existed. I considered this might provide the opportunity. But then you were there in my office again—adamant, demanding, infuriating—regardless, I somehow found it harder and harder to despise you. And it became clear, even back at the beginning that the Obliviate hadn’t completely held. There were cracks appearing. Watching your response to my first story, the woman in the rain—it was so classical. So . . . Hermione. I just knew that you were there—inside it.”
“But who was she?”
“She was you, Hermione.” Severus curled his hand into her hair. “A secret rendezvous—one of the many.”
“But I’ve never owned a white dress.”
“It was a white shirt, completely soaked. Hermione, I remember it like it was yesterday.”
“I would never forget my umbrella,” she muttered inanely.
“You would if I asked you to. Just so I could see you enter the room like that. Everyone’s eyes upon you—thoroughly wet and devastatingly beautiful. But you were mine.”
Hermione’s heart was aching again. “What about the woman in the forest? Your forbidden love?”
“They were all you.”
Then the tears came. All of those beautiful words. Just for her. For both of them. It was a story of such deep love. So where had it all gone wrong?
“Even your first chapter, the blindfold seduction—there were elements from our earliest times together, after I’d been released from hospital. So many similarities. And when you were telling it, I was transported back to that moment. The seduction had been beyond exhilarating, beyond anything. It fucking nearly killed me to listen to it.”
Hermione thought about where that initial chapter had come from. It had been a lucid dream after she’d masturbated over him throughout the night. But clearly it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, hidden deep in her subconscious, drawn out by the intensity of her burgeoning thoughts and feelings.
“What about the classroom scene?”
“Well.” He raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “It wasn’t exactly the same. Not nearly as aggressive as you depicted. At least, that’s not how I recall it. But there were certainly . . . “
“You said it didn’t you?” she murmured. “That line was yours, ‘I’m finding your mouth more and more agreeable’.”
He looked at her so intently, as if willing that moment to be theirs to enjoy rather than scrutinising it as they were now. “Yes.”
It was Hermione’s turn to rub her face in her hands. She was being drawn further and further into a never-ending spiral of events that she was worried she might not be able to emerge from intact.
“So what about all of that Slytherin versus Gryffindor stuff?”
“I must admit that there was an element of inquiry involved; I wanted to discover just how many memories still existed for you. And whether they were only sexual—perhaps bound up in the physical and emotional realm. The Slytherin/Gryffindor courage was a private joke we shared. You never could resist the bait.”
He had been testing her. Just not in the way she’d imagined.
“So you saw me as an experiment? You indulged me and the book writing to test out the effectiveness of your Obliviation?” she snapped. “I should be flattered.”
“No, of course not.” A deep frown cut through his brow. “I knew about what had happened with your parents, just not the financial situation, which has clearly been getting worse. I didn’t realise how much their circumstances, and perhaps the remnants of your Obliviation, had eaten away at you. When I saw your drunkenness and your despair, I wanted to help. To put some of it right. I told you the truth about my father. However, I wanted to help you beyond that. I just didn’t intend for things to go as far as they did.” He tried to clear the tightness in his throat. “Hermione, being close to you again and . . . knowing how much you wanted me, it was all I could do to try to maintain control. And I barely managed it. In fact, clearly I didn’t.”
Hermione thought about the intense sexual tension that had captured them—the carnal nature of their encounters, the raw need she had recognised in him. In both of them. She also realised that there was a damn good reason he had seemed so proficient at stimulating her.
“I did think that you were surprisingly . . . adept.” She found herself playing with his hair again.
“I know everything about you.” His hand slid down her naked hip. “I know your body like my own. I know what you love to do. What you love to hear. We’ve fucked so many times in nearly as many places.”
His face was animated with the memories that must have been flashing behind his eyes. She wished she could see them. She was also somewhat relieved to discover that he wasn’t so much a sex expert as an expert on her pussy. It also made her feel a little better about her abysmal performance in her ‘research’ for the sixty-nine sex position chapter.
“Don’t you think that you had a bit of an unfair advantage? Using your knowledge to manipulate me?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want it to be like that. Despite everything, I’d been desperately trying to cling on to the idea that this had simply been a chance meeting. An accidental affair. Even in the comfort of my own mind I wouldn’t allow myself to indulge the idea of a future for us, or even a past. Not until you wrote that last chapter. And then it all crumbled—I couldn’t hold the façade together any longer. I really thought that you’d returned.”
Returned? Returned for him? As his? She honestly couldn’t think of anything she would rather at that point. But there was still the question of what had happened to the book. And the monstrous fucking question of why she had wanted to erase every trace of him from her life.
“Tell me about the book, Severus," she said finally. "I need to know the truth.”
He slid his hand off her hip and rolled away to face the ceiling again. He couldn’t look at her. Either he was going to lie or he was going to tell her the truth. Either way, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.
“Have you ever heard of a ‘Whiffler’?”
“Yes, of course I have,” she replied with a puzzled frown. “I never let a man buy me a drink because of it.”
A ‘Whiffler’ was a well known date rape potion that was often used to spike women’s drinks. Colourless, odourless, tasteless—everyone was warned about them. It made the imbiber almost catatonic and removed all memory of the event.
“Ever wonder where the name came from?”
She hadn’t in the past—but now she did.
“Are you telling me that Walter P. Whiffle invented the ‘Whiffler’?”
“Not the one that wrote the book. His great grandson. He happens to be a Potions master. I’ve trained with him on occasions and . . . he was an advisor to Voldemort.”
Hermione was having trouble following the logical leaps in his story.
“So you destroyed the book because of Whiffle’s great grandson?”
Severus sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “’The Magic of Sex’ was an insidious attempt to encourage the spread of wizarding bloodlines. Beneath the innocuous exterior, under the guise of light-hearted promiscuity, there was a subversive message that everything, including sex, would be improved by inter-breeding with Muggles, without having to go through the degradation of having to marry one.”
“Are you saying that the book encouraged wizards to rape Muggles?”
“Not explicitly. At least not this book. It started off as an encouragement of casual unprotected sex. But Whiffle’s son and grandson continued to build upon the theme in their own writing, and then the great grandson took it to a whole new level with potions that would enable it to be enacted.”
“So what happened to the great grandson?" she asked. "Did he die in the war?”
“No. Unfortunately not. But he generally lays low. He was careful to keep himself out of the inner sanctum and covered his associations with Voldemort carefully. But his potions and the books of his ancestors still exist. At least some do. The ones I haven’t managed to purchase or destroy.”
“I don’t understand." Hermione propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look at his face. "What do these books have to do with you?”
He put his hands behind his head, looking anything but casual. “And now we come to the whole reason why you asked me to Obliviate you. You found out about what I was doing.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“Because . . . “ He took a deep breath. “When I was a Death Eater, we were made to enact Whiffle’s plan to spread the Wizarding seed throughout the Muggle world. Voldemort was much more enamoured with this idea than that of creating a pure bloodline. He wanted to breed Muggles out entirely. And Whiffle the Fourth was the key to it all, creating potions that enabled it to happen subversively; with no evidence left behind. Except for . . . one . . . thing.”
“And what was that?” Hermione’s heart suddenly accelerated.
He finally looked at her, his eyes fathomless pits. “A mudblood child.”
“A host of magical children, born to non-magical Muggle parents during and after the first wizarding war. Inexplicable. Except that it wasn’t.” He stared at her, utterly defeated.
Hermione blinked furiously as she tried to make sense of his words. “What are you saying, Severus?”
He didn’t respond.
“Severus, what are you fucking saying?” Her voice rose. “That my mother was raped by a pack of Death Eaters?" Her face contorted with pain. "And that I’m the product?”
He was beyond tears, his face ashen.
Hermione put a trembling hand to her cheek. “Were you there, Severus? Were you there when my mother was raped?”
He didn’t look at her. “Yes. But I didn't—”
In an instant she was off the bed, clutching a pillow to her stomach. “I need you to leave right now,” she gasped.
“I’m so sorry, Hermione.” Severus looked at her, shattered.
“Get the fuck out of here!” she screamed.
Chapter 17: Yon Zafè Aksidan
He was already standing beside the plinth when she arrived; hands clasped before him, staring straight ahead. She’d worn heels with her skirt, making her footsteps echo loudly as she approached him. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of acknowledgement upon her arrival, his black eyes remaining fixed on the wall. She took up a position on the opposite side of the plinth, tucking her bag under her arm. The book was in there, finally complete.
In the distance she heard the familiar sounds of the museum doors being locked to the public. It wouldn’t be long.
He was so quiet, she couldn’t even hear him breathing. But his presence, as usual, was palpable. It prickled her skin through her thin cardigan, pressing against her despite the podium that separated them. And of course there was the scent of him, faint motes wafting over, contrasting with his closed demeanour.
Across the room, the oak door opened and in strode two figures. The shorter of the two was an officious-looking Mr Dooley, squinting myopically as he crossed the room; the taller blonde man wore a dark green robe and walked with the air of an aristocrat. Neither spoke as they marched toward the plinth. Hermione heard the muttered ‘fuck’ from Severus at about the same time as she worked out who the stranger must be. She drew herself up to her full height, which was slightly more than usual with her heels, and tried to appear calm despite the jackhammering in her chest.
“So, did you manage to locate another copy of the book you destroyed?” Mr Dooley asked, his manner terse as he addressed them.
“Good afternoon, Mr Dooley,” Severus’ deep voice rang out before Hermione could reply. “It’s been a long time, Walter.” He levelled his eyes at the blonde man.
“Severus.” The man sneered, showing a pair of gold-capped teeth. “Why am I not surprised that you were involved in this little fiasco?”
Severus didn’t respond but his jaw muscles tightened as he continued to hold the man’s deprecating gaze.
“Mr Whiffle has been kind enough to agree to verify the authenticity of any publication that you may have procured. He knows his great grandfather’s work extremely well as you can imagine.” Mr Dooley peered at them. “However, if you have chosen instead to pay the money, I would ask that you expedite the process as we have some other business to attend to.”
“We have the book,” Hermione replied, her eyes not wavering from the tall man who was regarding her with undisguised interest.
Reaching into her bag, she brought out a package wrapped in tissue paper and handed it to Mr Dooley.
“Let’s see,” he muttered, pulling the paper off and dipping into his pocket for his magnifying glass. Shifting his glasses to his forehead, he carefully examined the front cover of the book.
Hermione had ensured that it was an exact replica of the original and she had manipulated the magical ink so that all of the text was written in an identical font. Apart from that, however, there wasn’t a single word from Mr Walter P. Whiffle the First in there. Would his great grandson choose to let it go? Hermione suspected not. It seemed that there was no love lost between he and Severus. No doubt the man whose eyes were lingering on her bare legs would be looking to screw the Potions Professor into the ground.
Mr Dooley handed the book to Whiffle. He opened to a page in the middle and frowned as he scanned the words.
“What is this rubbish?” He looked up at Severus.
Severus’ black eyes flashed but she could tell that he was at a loss for how to respond. How could he explain it? That the two of them had spent the past week writing a bunch of erotic narratives in an attempt to pass it off as his great grandfather’s work?
“What is it, Mr Whiffle?” Mr Dooley held up the magnifying glass for a closer look.
“You won’t need a magnifying glass to see that there is some sort of deception at play,” Mr Whiffle muttered as he flicked through the pages. “This is simply a collection of poorly-written smut. It’s clearly an attempt to blight the Whiffle name and I would suggest that your response should leave these two in no doubt as to how seriously you take such a feeble attempt to mislead yourself and this museum.”
“Is that the case . . . Miss . . . Granger?” Mr Dooley’s moustache twitched angrily.
“No, that is not the case,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly. “I actually believe it to be very well-written smut.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr Dooley growled, his small hands balling into fists.
“Furthermore, it is not an attempt to blight the Whiffle name, as the Whiffle name is not on this publication,” she stated, reaching out and pulling the book from Mr Whiffle’s hands.
Turning to the main cover, she wiped her hand across the author’s name. The two capital W’s in ‘Walter P. Whiffle’ remained, but the other letters transformed so that they now read, the ‘Wet Woman’.
“Who the fuck is the ‘Wet Woman’?” Mr Whiffle sneered at her.
“She is someone who is getting increasingly tired of having to explain herself,” Hermione stated. “And I believe she also had a collaborator.”
When she wiped her hand over the blank section below ‘By the Wet Woman’, another set of words appeared – ‘And the Solicitous Serpent’.
“And who is the—“
Whiffle stopped when he saw the slow lift of Severus’ eyebrow.
“So you don’t have the book then?” Mr Dooley stepped closer, his cheeks flushed with rage.
“As it turns out—no.” Hermione flicked her hair. “But I do have something else.”
Reaching into her bag she pulled out a pouch and pushed it roughly into his stomach. The rattle of galleons within was sufficient to finally shut his whiskery mouth.
“The other reason this publication can’t be considered a blight on the Whiffle name,” Hermione continued, “is that the Whiffle name is already as blighted as any name could possibly be. The Whiffles—present company included—are a stain on humanity—Wizards and Muggles alike. But their despicable legacy is slowly being whittled away, replaced and re-written. And I look forward to this new edition of ‘The Magic of Sex’ replacing everything that your disgusting family has ever created.”
“Now, now, Mudblood.” Whiffle sneered in disdain. “How do you propose for this garbage to displace over one hundred years of wizarding scholarship?”
Hermione took a deep breath, determined to remain composed.
“This ‘garbage’ happens to have been purchased by the largest publishing house in the wizarding world and I have it on good authority that nothing like it currently exists. They are extremely confident that it’s going to be a best seller. The advance is—how should I put it—substantial. They’ve also commissioned a sequel. I think the authors are going to be extremely busy.” Her gaze flickered toward Severus whose lip twitched almost imperceptibly.
“Miss Granger, I demand that you explain yourself!” Mr Dooley growled, clearly unhappy with being left out of the loop.
“My explanation is as follows.” Hermione propped a hand on her hip. “You can shove your stupid fucking job up your arse. And . . . I’d like to give you a piece of advice.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m not sure what further business you have with this man, but if it is of a sexual nature I would suggest bringing that magnifying glass with you—someone who needs to render people unconscious to have sex with them is not only lower than a Flobberworm’s testicles but must have an infinitesimally small dick.”
With that she stepped around the plinth and grabbed Severus’ hand. “Not something that certain others have a problem with.”
“Good day, gentlemen,” she huffed and strode from the room, Severus following a step behind, regarding her with a mixture of confusion and admiration.
Hermione drew her wand as she approached the front door of the museum.
“Alohomora!” She flicked her wand at it, not breaking stride as she exited, continuing to pull Severus in her wake.
In silence, they walked to the nearest Apparition point, where she transported them to an alley by her flat. It wasn’t until she had led him inside and slammed the door that she finally spoke,
“Take a seat on the couch please.”
Severus paused, eyeing her warily before doing as she asked.
When he was seated, she approached slowly, arms braced across her chest.
“I’ve had some time to think,” she said, reading the question on his face.
“A matter of hours?” he responded, his bloodshot eyes narrowing, clearly unconvinced.
“As I said,” she dipped her fingers into the front of her cardigan and pulled out a gold chain, hung with a pendant of concentric gold disks, a tiny hourglass in the centre, “I’ve had time to think.”
He frowned before inclining his head toward the Time-Turner. “McGonagall?”
“Yes. She was most sympathetic.”
He nodded wearily and she noticed then how completely exhausted he looked. He clearly hadn’t slept since she’d demanded that he leave her flat in the early hours of the morning. No doubt he’d been ruminating on what had transpired.
“I’ve spent many days working through my feelings about what happened.” She began to pace the worn carpet. “I’ve cried more than I ever thought possible. And at one point, I thought I wanted to kill you.”
She took in his dejected posture—quite sure he wouldn’t put up a fight even if she tried to do it now.
“However, I realised that you’d chosen to tell me the truth when you could have easily lied. Also, after a lot of searching I managed to track down a certain individual with intimate knowledge of what had transpired in the Muggle raids. He informed me that he distinctly remembers you being punished by Voldemort for consistently ‘going missing’ at the crucial times. He also remembers that your role was to carry and distribute the potions and not much more. I further realise that you were young and probably quite afraid, and you have clearly been trying to make up for it ever since.”
Hermione sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that I forgive you. I forgive you for your involvement in those despicable acts. And I don’t wish to discuss them further.”
He was looking more drained by the moment—the shadows beneath his eyes deepening. It was as though the very fabric of his being had been held together by the tension of guilty deception, and as it was being aired, forgiven, released, he was collapsing into a state of almost childlike remorse—a guilt that should be tempered by unconditional love—but unfortunately something that he had probably never known. It was all she could do to stop herself from crawling onto his lap and rocking him. There was more she needed to say.
“I want to know why you performed Legilimency on me. Were you looking into my memories or were you deliberately trying to manipulate me?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t once perform Legilimency on you. I didn’t need to. You were always so easy to read, Hermione.”
“When we were in your bathroom, you told me that I was thinking out loud when I wasn’t.”
Severus shrugged. “You were. I could tell from the sounds that you were making what you wanted. It was the sound you always made when you thought you might be missing out on sex.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hermione tried to sound proper—after all she was wearing her most proper outfit—but she could feel a deep flush creeping into her cheeks.
He raised an eyebrow at her—somehow managing to look innocent. “You wanted to know.”
She levelled her eyes at him. “So are there any more of these choice moments I should be aware of? Any other phrases or . . . noises . . . I make, that are an apparent dead giveaway?”
The ghost of a smirk crossed his face. “Well, there's one phrase that you mentioned yesterday evening that I always found quite simple to decipher.”
“Yes?” She lifted her chin, determined to be able to withstand whatever embarrassment may be on its way.
He inhaled deeply. “The phrase is, ‘Give it to me, you sexy fucker’. For some reason I was quite able to crack the code on that one. And, yes, you’ve always been crude, Miss Granger.”
Hermione looked at the floor, an embarrassed smile on her face.
There it was again, that low chuckle of his. When her eyes returned to his, he was looking at her with such affection, she knew that he was absolutely accepting of her, no matter how crude. Again she was captured by that intense desire to curl up in his lap. But she knew she needed to get the answers to the questions that had plagued her during her time alone if they were ever going to move forward.
Biting her lip, her face became serious once again. “If the chapter I wrote on hand jobs was accurate—then you encouraged me to wank you off without even looking at me. Who did you think I was?”
He was silent for a moment before responding. “I thought you were you.”
“We’d had no relationship whatsoever prior to this and yet you somehow knew it was me?” Hermione looked unconvinced.
He sighed. “It was your hands. When I felt them, I knew it was you. Small, soft, supple—I’d watched them chopping and brewing in class for years. There’s a good reason I invited you into an apprenticeship. You have wonderful hands.”
Hermione smiled inwardly. She couldn’t say a lot. She’d been ogling his hands for years.
“And yet that doesn’t explain why you expected me to give you a hand job.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t have to—it was merely a suggestion. You could have removed yourself quite easily. I just suddenly had a desire to feel those beautiful hands on me.”
Hermione knew just how he felt. Her deep desire to have his beautiful hands on her was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
“And after I’d felt them once,” his long fingers gently rubbed along his thigh, “I knew I wanted to feel them again. Many more times.”
Hermione’s breathing rate had gone up a notch but she had one final question to ask. “Why did you really agree to write the book?”
He must have read the look on her face because he suddenly reached out for her wrist and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her.
“Because when we started writing, I realised it was going to be everything that Whiffle’s book wasn’t—raw, sexy, fantastical, but also open, honest and with a certain innocence—that of just wanting to fuck someone you really fancy, maybe someone you love, without some ulterior motive. Even if no one read it, it felt—as you suggested to Whiffle—like an act of defiance. We were re-writing history, erasing a little of the horror that had come before. It appealed to me very much in the end. That’s why I Owled through the final chapters this morning—although I was unsure of what you would do with them. I didn’t even know if you would make an appearance today.”
“Well I did,” she murmured quietly into his chest. She was sick of being proper now. She’d spent a long time without him, just in her own company, and she was totally over herself.
“You certainly did. And it was spectacular,” he whispered in her ear.
She nuzzled into him further. “I missed you.”
“Did you?” he rumbled, his chest vibrating against her.
“Mmm. I even Time-Turned back a little further—to when we were fucking on my bed. I hid under it, listening to us.”
“Is that all you were doing?”
“No. I had my bumble-bee out.”
“Your what?” he chuckled, making her jiggle.
“I’ll introduce you to it some time.” She smiled against him.
Then her smile dropped away. “But there’s something important we need to do first.”
She sat back to look into his face. “I know you're aware of who my real father is.” He returned her gaze with a serious frown, clearly wondering where this was going. “But I know who he is too—he’s a loving man walking along a beach somewhere in Australia with my darling mother. And now it’s time to bring them home . . . Will you help me?”
He nodded, "Of course," and squeezed her tightly.
“We have enough money to do it now, but we’ll need to make a start on the next book as soon as possible,” she said, trailing her fingers through his hair.
“Are you sure you can work up enough inspiration so soon?” He leaned forward, drawing the tip of his nose down her temple.
“You’re forgetting—it’s been a hell of a lot longer for me. I think I might be nearly as old as you after all that time-turning.” She smirked against his cheek.
“But you’re never too old to go over my knee,” he growled.
“Thank fuck for that,” she muttered, turning her head to capture his lips in a deeply passionate kiss.
They continued to explore each other slowly, and with an intent to connect and heal. After several long sensuous minutes, Hermione pulled back.
“This next book does need to be a bit different though. Maybe a little more . . . kinky."
“What did you have in mind?” He trailed his fingers down her cheek, regarding her hungrily.
She nuzzled against his palm. “Well, you’re the one who claims to know over one hundred sex positions.”
“I might have been trying to impress you.” He trailed his thumb across her lips.
“It worked.” She nipped at him. “But now it’s time to follow through. So, I’ve had a bit of an idea.”
“Well, now that I’m fully detoxified, I won’t have an opportunity to see multiple fuzzy-wuzzy Severus Snapes again.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“But I do have this.” She dangled the time-turner in front of him. “How do you fancy a ménage à trois with myself, and a sexy fucker called Severus Snape?”
Severus groaned deep in his throat, clearly turned on. “I thought Dooley was the only one you told to go fuck himself?”
She snorted with laughter. “True. But now you’re dealing with the 'Wet Woman'.”
“My Wet Woman,” he murmured against her lips.
“And my Solicitous Serpent.” She licked into his mouth. “Or should I say, Solicitous Serpents . . . “
Chapter 18: A Not So Accidental Affair
And here is the final chapter. Short but sweet. As always, thanks so much to those of you who have left comments and feedback. I always look forward to hearing from you. Please let me know any final thoughts. Nothing currently in the works but no doubt I’ll come up with something else soon. Until then, stay well. DSx
Epilogue: The Magic of Love
By the Solicitous Serpent
It might have been the hundredth time—or perhaps the thousandth—that my eyes had drifted of their own accord to the figure folded in the low-slung hammock, swinging breezily, toes tipping the grass. Tirelessly, they sought her out, a visage that enchanted anew with each unassuming sway.
The book, its pages woven through her fingers, might have revealed something of itself, imparted the surge of an adventure or something more . . . a ticklish fantasy. Had it not been for the tell-tale tilt—the sagging inclination toward her perfect brow that betrayed the truth of their engagement. It was, of course, a forgotten bystander, or perhaps a willing caretaker over her sleeping form.
Her lips, like blossoms fallen from the woven boughs, were enough alone to captivate me—to fuel a fantasy of my own.
Planted with perfect precision, unhurried from the sensitive arc of my earlobe, their sultry graze would slip under my collar, levering me away from yet another ordinary day, drawing out tender shivers to shake the starch from my bones.
Her tongue would lap away a tide of tension in moments, the delicate shoots of her fingers penetrating, taking root in my chest, piercing with exquisite depth all that swelled within. And I would yield willingly to the seductive strains of each whispered breath, each sensuous susurration against my neck, warm and redolent with an essence that was only her.
Then those ripe buds would gently sweep across mine, skimming, grazing, searching for the perfect place to end their fluttering descent. And I would let them explore—after all I was the beneficiary of their sensuous snooping, their punctilious prying.
And when the perfect collision came, it would always shake me, like a match striking at my core. Perpetually shocked by the deep desire of her tongue as it searched the hungry hollows of my mouth, I would marvel at the creature that was blind to her own intoxicating beauty and blind also to my own comparative ordinariness.
But if I ever harboured doubts about the veracity of her feelings for me, they would be swallowed as her ardent words, ‘I love you,’ dripped ambrosial down my throat. And I would lay in her arms, drunk from our fervent feasting, floating within the amber highlights of her eyes, and euphoric in the knowledge that life had granted me a happiness beyond that which I ever imagined.
The wind blows. It lifts her hair against a setting sun and I feel that familiar tug, the deep need to protect, to provide sanctuary for the precious gift swaying beyond my grasp. And I can hold back no longer, settling myself in quiet decumbence by her side. She feels my presence, lashes lifting, laced with gold in the sunlight. Her lips follow the upward inclination of her eyebrows—her pleasure in me sublime.
And when she grasps my hand and slides it over the smooth rise of her belly, setting my palm against the warm wall of her swelling womb, I feel layers of life multiplied and layers of love in equal measure.
And this man who once watched life slipping away in indelible increments, an exchange as worthless as it was pointless, is now flooded with overwhelming abundance—of life and love—its damp overflow threading down his cheeks as he whispers to both, 'I love you.'