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A Sweet Flirtation	By : dragoon811 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 7976 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters therein, and am simply borrowing them for a while. I am making no money from this fic.

Chapter List
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Author's Note: This is all because I bought Cara McGee's original Inktober of Snape & Sugar Quills. I was quite overcome (it's a seriously sexy smirk) and this burst forth. Please bear in mind that it's a bit of food-erotica? I guess? This is smut, a pwp, and if voyeurism of a sort plus two consenting adults later doing the horizontal tango offends you, don't read this. If, on the other hand, you want Hermione catching Snape innocently having a dessert and things getting out of hand... well, then.
Author's Note 2: I know that WWoHP sells Sugar Quills, and that they are basically lollipops. However, I've always pictured them like the big fluffy white feather pens you see for signing guest books. Like, spun sugar and airy, or maybe some quills were sold to look like normal every day quills. I don't know. But I'm going with my own head-canon here. I'm sorry: this note, like the fic, has gotten away from me.
Author's Thanks To: Thanks to Gemini Sister for Brit-picking, and to StrongHermione and kci47 for your eyes in catching all my oops and errors. Thanks to Toby for being my sounding board, and as always, many thanks to Vanessa and Jesi for being my cheerleaders. I love you all!! <3

The little cafe in the farthermost corner of Diagon Alley was not Hermione's usual choice for lunch, but from her very first visit there, she was hooked. It wasn't that the food was great—it was good, but certainly not the best—and it wasn't that the service was spectacular—it was decent—and it certainly wasn't the prices—they were comparable. Hell, for once, it wasn't even the privacy she had found in the worn wooden booths.
No. The little cafe, whose name had long since worn off the sign and no one had bothered to repaint it, was not, precisely, what captivated her.
Hermione had come in and ordered that first Thursday, then promptly sat down. It wasn't until she was seated and had given up on occupying herself by fidgeting with the tassels on her bag before she looked around the room.
It was a nice place: nondescript menu board listing the specials in glowing blue chalk and a lamp on every table. The white walls were dingy, but otherwise clean and unadorned. The lone window was admittedly quite large, but a cluster of witches and wizards were at that table, knitting and chatting quietly.
There were a few pairs of other patrons scattered among the room, but it was the only other single diner that caught her eye.
Hermione normally would have instantly recognised any of her professors anywhere, but he looked...so different today. The six years of peace—and not teaching—had been kind to him, and it took her a moment of staring before she realised that it was Snape.
Snape looked surprisingly relaxed; his long legs stretched out underneath the table and crossed at the ankles. He was missing the usual robes over that stuffy-looking frock coat, but he was still fully buttoned. There was something...different about him. Maybe it was the mug of tea or the mostly-finished sandwich, or the way he was so fully focused on his book. Maybe it was the very end of what appeared to be a Sugar Quill that he held idly to his mouth. After all, she had never really associated the man with sweets. He just wasn't the strict, harsh professor or the resentful invalid she remembered.
Unabashed, Hermione stared for a long moment.
She watched him frown thoughtfully at his book, crunching on the last of the quill. Sugar crystals gathered at the corner of his mouth and his tongue darted out to capture them. As she watched, Snape licked his fingers, sucking each of them clean of the treat before drying them on his napkin. He wiped his thin lips with that same linen, his eyes never leaving the page of his book.
Hermione found herself fascinated.
He was closing the book and cancelling the hover charm when her food arrived, distracting her. Hermione thanked the witch who'd brought her the goblet of pumpkin juice and she inspected her order—soup, crackers, and a meat pasty—to ensure it was correct. It even smelled good! Far better than the fare at the Ministry canteen.
When she looked up at the man who had occupied her attention, she found Snape glowering at her. Startled, Hermione gave him a small smile and a polite nod. Unwilling to maintain eye contact or admit she'd been staring, she bent to her meal and resolutely began to eat.
After a few bites, she felt the hair on her neck prickle and she glanced up. Snape was standing by the door, holding it open, and staring at her with a peculiar look. He didn't say anything as he vanished out into the bustle of Diagon Alley.

Hermione could not have said what drove her to return the next day, but she did. She even arrived a little earlier than before, but Snape never showed up. She was oddly relieved, but there was a niggling disappointment that kept her coming back every workday.
On her walks through Diagon, she noticed that Snape closed his specialty shop every day at the same hour for lunch. Fittingly, it was the only shop with two acknowledged entrances, seeing as how it was on the corner between Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. She had been the one to file his permits and licenses, and knew that he sold mainly potions not kept in stock at the apothecary, but wasn't above a little spellcrafting, either.
It was a week since she had first seen him that Snape showed up at the cafe again. He came in, sat down at the booth he clearly had decided was his, and put a stack of coins at the table's edge. Hermione was brushing her hair out of her face as she covertly studied him when he caught her looking, his book half out of his pocket.
Snape grimaced, but Hermione merely flashed him a smile and kept eating her sandwich, nervous. His eyes narrowed, but when she did not pester him, his lips thinned and he sat stiffly, opening his book. He ignored her, so focused on doing so that he barely even looked up as the witch waiting tables scooped up the coins and then returned with what must be his usual order.
Merlin, but it took everything she had not to stare at him this time. Hermione stole glances at him under her fringe, looking up from her own book. He was slowly relaxing, his posture loosening until his legs were extended under the table and crossed at the ankles. By time she had finished her meal and a chapter, Snape had finished his own meal. And still, there was a different quality about him, something she could not quite put her finger on.
A few minutes after finishing his sandwich, he pulled a brown paper bag from his pocket, and from that emerged a pristine white sugar quill. The rustle of the paper was what stole her attention from her book and made her watch him.
Hermione was fascinated. It was as if he had forgotten she was there, and he began to eat his quill. It took all of six minutes for her to figure out what was different about Snape.
He was sexy.
Dead sexy, in an aloof, sensual sort of way.
How had she never noticed before?
I was a student, she told herself. There was no way she would have gotten close enough to the man to realise it, and even if she had, she admitted that she had been too immature to realise his appeal.
And appeal it was.
Within two minutes, Hermione could feel her cheeks heat and she reflexively clenched her thighs together. It was worse because he clearly had no idea of his effect on her. No, the damn hook-nosed, greasy-haired bastard just sat there, engrossed in his book!
It had all begun innocently enough: Snape had tapped the quill's tip twice on the tabletop to break the enchantment holding it rigid, and he'd brought it to his lips, the now-soft and feathery end brushing against his large nose, but he hadn't sampled it. No, he'd frowned at his book, lips pursing, and his hand had dropped.
The end of the quill had brushed over his mouth—how had she ever thought it harsh?—and as she'd watched, Snape had scowled, moving again. Soon the feather was caressing his angular cheeks, a wisp of the quill sticking to a spot high on his cheekbone.
Hermione had known then she was in trouble, for all she could think of was crossing the room and kissing the damn sugar from his face.
Mercifully, some deity had seen fit to grant her enough fortitude not to rush across the cafe. Of course, that same deity had not made Snape stop.
When Snape returned the quill to his mouth, a quizzical expression shaping his expressive brows, Hermione gripped the edge of her table. Merlin! Snape's tongue darted out, a darker pink than his lips, those lips which were not scowling but instead parting, admitting the end of the quill, and she was certain she made a small whining noise in the back of her throat.
He didn't look up.
He was so involved in his book, so relaxed, that Hermione was staring at him openly. Her attempts at subtlety were discarded in favor of watching him. She mimicked him helplessly, her own tongue wetting her mouth, but lacked the sweet flavour she knew his would now be. Her heart was thudding against her ribs and she was terrified he would hear it across the room.
Snape tilted his head, hair spilling like silk rather than oil, nibbling the feathery bits. She was certain that her face was on fire. Hermione wanted nothing more than to be that damn sugar quill. The feather was dissolving under his lips and tongue, each pull of his mouth making her throb with desire.
His motions were languorous, drawing out each moment it would take to finish the sweet. Hermione bit her lip to keep from whimpering when the feather was gone and he began to suckle on the shaft. She swallowed hard, desperate to keep her seat even as she rocked a little in place.
Worse, she knew she was wet, could feel the heat curling deep in her stomach. Her nipples ached and her cheeks were aflame.
Her breath came faster as he began to eat the stem remaining in his hand. She imagined she could hear the crunching from here, could see the little crystals escaping. He tossed his head and his tongue darted out to gather the sugar back.
As she watched, he finished the treat and began to lick his fingers; laving each digit, sucking them into his mouth... Merlin, she wanted to do that for him! And more.
The man was going to kill her. Hermione wanted Snape, wanted him now, to cross the room and throw herself at him before she combusted...
No no no no no! Her rational side finally interjected, and she leapt into action.
Quickly, Hermione gathered her things, feeling the slickness between her legs make walking a perilous pleasure, and fled the building.

Hermione spent the rest of her work day a frustrated and hormonal mess. She misfiled thirteen different permits and now had a stack of paperwork to fill out and submit to have them refiled properly. In short, she was a mess and it was all Snape's fault, not that she would admit it to anyone.
No, she had passed the time being incredibly horny—well aware that she hadn't had a shag, let alone pleasured herself, in over six months—and then incredibly angry. Now, she was in denial.
“There's no way on Earth I find Snape attractive, right?” Hermione asked Crooks as he wound between her legs, purring noisily. The orange cat didn't answer her, more interested in tripping her before she could cross the linoleum and set his dish down properly. “Of course not,” she answered for him as he buried his face in his food. “That's just silly of me.”
Straightening with a wince, she set about heating up her own dinner. Her mind was so focused on Snape and all the reasons why she shouldn't find him arousing that she forgot to stir the soup she was reheating. Hermione scowled at the brown bits she'd scraped off the bottom of the pan now floating alongside the rice and chicken, but ate it anyway.
By nine, she had tried to lose herself in a stupid telly program and three different books. She also had an irresistible craving for something sweet, but a thorough search of her flat turned up nothing but plain white sugar. A few moments of deliberation had her trying a spoonful, but it just wasn't what she was craving.
Annoyed with herself, Hermione decided to draw a bath. She piled her hair up on her head and secured it, before pouring her favourite bath oil in the water. The room was steamy as she slipped into the warm water and leaned her head back over the edge of the bathtub.
Exhaling, Hermione forced herself to relax. Breathe in, breathe out.
She got a few breaths in before the mental image of Snape's tongue against the white quill intruded and her eyes flew open.
Hermione scowled and closed her eyes firmly. She pictured a nice, peaceful pond in a garden. Yes, she liked gardens. She tried to imagine walking down the gravel path, the crunch of it under her shoes, smelling the lavender, the hydrangeas, the jasmine...she turned a mental pathway and there was Snape again, this time with a rose and a smirk that to her now looked positively sinful.
“Damn it!” Hermione sat up, uncaring about the sloshing of the water onto the blue bathmat. “Accio romance novel!”
Maybe she just needed a release. Yes, that was it. Something tried-and-true. She had fixated on Snape because he was there and she hadn't taken any time for herself. That was all.
Her outstretched arm dripped and she caught the beaten-up paperback copy of 'The Pirate Prince' before it could smack her in the face. The book was her favourite, and it showed. It had survived being shoved under her mattress, into her beaded bag from the year on the run, read over messy meals and in the bathtub. It was stained with soup, tea, and tears, and survived being dropped into the bath three times.
With a determined smile, Hermione settled back and flipped it open to her favourite bit. She would forget about Snape and the way his tongue curled over the quill's slim shaft, the way he sucked and nibbled in small increments. She would not think about him. Instead, she planned to read about the wicked pirate captain Sebastian.
A comfortable sigh escaped her lips. The heroine, Helena, had finally broken into the pirate's heart and the two were in a passionate embrace, his hands wandering her form. Hermione wished to take the curly-haired princess's place with the handsome pirate as he pressed her to the bed...
Hermione shifted in the bathtub, one hand slipping below the water to stroke between her thighs. Yes, this was what she needed. To read about a nice romp on a rocking ship in the middle of the ocean, a man who actually reciprocated... She let out a happy moan as the heroine came closer to climax, her fingers rubbing her clit.
Panting lightly, Hermione kept her eyes open, reading about the black-haired man with his face between Helena's thighs... Fire sizzled in her veins and now she was close, so close... She dropped the book over the side of the bathtub, circling more quickly as her heart pounded in her ears.
She could just picture it in her mind's eye, Captain Sebastian was looking up at Helena, his mouth damp and his smirk—Hermione came with a gasp, feeling vaguely guilty that when the pirate looked up it hadn't been the tanned, rugged man she usually imagined.
It had been Snape.
Sated but annoyed, she struggled out of the bathtub.

Hermione refused to avoid the cafe. She had to prove to herself that she wasn't attracted to the man, which meant studying him. And studying him in the cafe was far safer than wandering into his shop with some ill-conceived story.
She waited all day for him to show up, and when he did not she spent her weekend working herself into a hormonal frenzy. She spun out long, torrid fantasies about him putting that tongue to good use on her body, of herself licking the residue off of those long, pale fingers of his. All of her fantasies started with Hermione trying to prove to herself that she was not attracted to him.
And she was failing at that.
The only thing to do now was see if it was more than the stupid Sugar Quill incidents.
Waiting for him to show up at the cafe became a thing. For the past two weeks, he had only showed up on Thursdays. Both weeks, he had a quill and this last time she had left aroused and frustrated. She wasn't giving up yet however.
When he turned up Wednesday the following week, he saw her in her booth and his shoulder sagged, a look of resignation on his face. But he didn't leave, just went to his table.
Holding her book up, Hermione studied him as he ate his lunch. He looked the same as she remembered, though he was a healthier colour these days. Without teaching robes or a cloak, he had a very nice form. Not, she told herself, that she was actually seriously considering what he looked like naked.
...Well now she was.
Focus! she told scolded herself. The way he ate lunch was efficient, his manners tidy. Absolutely no appeal. Hermione relaxed, watching his throat work as he swallowed the last of his tea. His expression was studious and carefully blank as he read, and she wondered again what had his attention so enraptured. The title of the book was obscured again. Last week it had been something large and hardcover, this week it was something paperback, which surprised her. Knowing about Snape's upbringing as a half-blood was different than watching a man she had only ever known in the wizarding world read a paperback.
But there was no real appeal. Certainly, he wasn't handsome, but he was striking. All lean limbs and pale skin against his dark hair and clothes... Damn it, no! He was not... Hermione sighed and reached for her juice in defeat.
Alright, fine. He was attractive.
It wasn't completely a surprise, she told herself. Certainly, she'd had that whopping crush on Lockhart, but that had died a painful death. Then there was Viktor, with his heavy brow and dark looks. Ron had been the real anomaly, and a terrible choice of boyfriends. Then there had been Michael and Vincenzo, in that order. Both of whom had dark hair, angular features, a good academic grounding, and Vincenzo had had a wonderfully silky voice...
Hermione paused. Oh, dear.
She had a type.
How had she not noticed that her best relationships shared a great deal in common with Snape?
Frowning, she took a fortifying gulp of juice. She had never had a crush on the man, never realised he was a man, in that sense, either, for that matter. It was distressing, but now that she considered it, considered him... She resigned herself to her attraction to him. He wasn't terrible-looking, and obviously she found him sexually appealing. She knew he was acerbic, but hadn't had enough contact with him outside of a student-teacher role to know if he was any different with equals.
She assumed so, as he had seemed to get along with the other professors.
But as a conversationalist?
Hermione had lost herself in thoughts of ways to approach him and start up conversations when the rustling of a paper bag drew her attention to Snape again.
There was no Sugar Quill at the end of his meal, but he pulled out several chocolates, and Hermione found herself wondering what was in them. Were they dark chocolates? She thought the bitter would suit him. But perhaps he liked milk? Were they truffles? Caramels? Filled? She didn't dare change her seat for a better view.
She had thought she was safe with him eating chocolates, that these sweets could not possibly cause any sort of arousal, but no.
Within minutes she was hot and needy. The chocolates had melted a bit in his pocket and the mess clung to his fingers, resulting in him fastidiously licking them clean after every piece, his brow furrowed in annoyance.
At one point, he apparently liked the filling of a chocolate, for he darted his tongue inside it and she could see the way his tongue curled, scooping out whatever it was.
Hermione would gladly commit murder for a pair of Omnioculars. The replay alone would be worth it.
Snape bit into one that contained some sort of liquid, for it escaped and ran down his hand. The man swore softly, and Hermione exhaled shakily. Merlin, his voice! Had that been his voice while she'd been at school?
A moment later he'd unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeve and—fuck—he was following the glistening, sticky trail with his tongue. He was licking and suckling the base of his palm when he looked away from his book.
Straight at her. His gaze was scorching.
Hermione did the only sensible thing she could do in her flushed and highly-aroused condition.
She fled as sedately as she could manage, but still managed to bang her knee on an unoccupied table.

By lunchtime the next day, Hermione had convinced herself that she had not embarrassed herself and she walked through Diagon Alley with confidence. Her courage did waver when she opened the cafe door and saw Snape already in his booth and waiting for his meal, but she still managed to order and take her own seat with her head held high.
He was watching her. Odd.
Pulling a mystery novel from her bag, Hermione decided to read, determined not to give the game away. At least she should be able to sink into world of the bossy Egyptologist and her grouchy husband... Actually, it was simple to fall into the plot. She barely registered when her food arrived, nudging her plate out of the way and absently eating her crisps one by one.
It was a low murmur that distracted her. Years of being his student had her zeroing in that Snape was speaking, and Hermione looked up from her book, blinking. Snape was speaking to the serving witch, her hand in his as he pressed a coin into it. His head was tilted back, his hair spilling back like ink.
His voice was too low for her to make it out, but when the witch nodded and left, he turned to Hermione with a lazy, satisfied smile.
Caught staring, Hermione flushed and gave up on her book in favor of eating her sandwich. The bread was fresh, the turkey moist, and the lettuce crisp, but while she wasn't looking at Snape she could feel his eyes on her.
It was distracting.
Chew, swallow. Don't look at Snape. Take a bite. Don't look at Snape. Chew, swallow. Don't look at Snape.
The serving witch appeared and put something down in front of Snape. When she moved, Hermione could see it was a dark chocolate cauldron cake, topped with cream and a single gleaming-red cherry. Her stomach growled; she had almost ordered one herself when she had seen it on the specials list, and now she wanted it—him—more than ever.
Snape picked up the cherry, licked the cream off, sucking lightly on the glistening fruit, then plucked and discarded the stem before pushing the cherry into the center of the cauldron cake. Hermione frowned. That was certainly an odd thing to do, but the man was focused now on bringing a spoon to the topping.
As she watched, he scooped some onto his spoon and brought it to his mouth. His tongue wet his lips and then the spoon disappeared between them. Snape's eyes fluttered closed and her breath caught. His head fell back slowly and he rolled it, looking for all the world like a man in pleasure.
“Merlin,” Hermione whispered.
Snape lifted his head and opened his eyes to meet her gaze. Hermione swallowed hard but didn't look away. One black brow rose, and he set the spoon down. Her nails bit into her palms and her heart quickened as her sandwich lay on her plate, forgotten.
Was it her imagination, or was there some whipped cream in the corner of his mouth? His lips curving, Snape dropped his attention to his dessert and dipped a finger into it. It emerged with whipped cream and chocolate cream clinging to it, and he proceeded to lick the digit clean. Slowly.
Had he always had such nice hands? She remembered noticing they were clean—fastidiously so, but wasn't that to be expected of someone handle potions ingredients?—but had his fingers always been so long and slim? And deft, the way he was scooping out the cauldron cake's filling with first one finger and now two, bringing each morsel to his lips. The way he licked them, sucked them...it was indecent!
She was burning, her cheeks red, her nipples aching. Never before Snape, of all people, had she found someone eating so-so...erotic! Her hands were trembling, imagining his fingers delving into her body, curving and thrusting, instead of the dessert. Blood was rushing through her ears and she had lost all sense of public decorum and was shamelessly squirming in her booth. She did not have the presence of mind to cast a Notice-Me-Not, and was perilously close to orgasm.
Snape dried his fingers on his napkin, cupped the cauldron cake with both hands, and brought it to his mouth.
His black eyes met hers and he licked his upper lip slowly. Hermione held her breath, terrified she would moan or something equally embarrassing. Snape's eyes never left hers as he lapped at the cauldron.
With a whimper, Hermione shifted in her seat. She blinked but could not bring herself to look away. His tongue was clever, bringing up the cherry he had sunk into the cake earlier to the surface once more. As she watched, he licked it clean of the chocolate, his tongue swirling, lapping...and then he bit into the cake, his eyes closing.
Creamy filling overflowed despite his early efforts and when he looked back up at her, some cream clung to the tip of his nose, chocolate smeared around his mouth. With the most sinful, lascivious smirk she had ever seen, Snape licked up the cake to the cherry, gathering it into his mouth.
Hermione shuddered as she came, her eyes falling shut.
When her heart had calmed and she could breathe again, Snape was not in his chair. The half-eaten cake lay on its plate next to the dirty napkin, the other diners seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired.
“I trust I will see you tomorrow, Miss Granger,” came the purr above her and she very nearly hit him with her hair in her haste to turn. His voice washed over her. Oh god, his voice was deeper than she remembered. It rumbled through her, commanded her attention... She was unable to reply.
Snape said nothing further, merely gave her a knowing smile and strode confidently out of the cafe.
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A Sweet Flirtation