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The Book that Binds COMPLETE	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 16011 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
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A/N: Well it took all of half a day from finishing ‘The Quickening’ to start this one after failing in my self-made promise to take a break. It’s going to be quite a different story I think but I don’t always have a lot of control over where things end up. Updates will be less frequent than previous but I hope people will stick with it. Happy reading. DS
Hermione’s fingers stuttered over the book spines, like the paling fences she had trailed along, guiding her home as a child. They flashed their gilt-edged titles in return, audacious shopfronts beckoning for her to enter. Which to choose? Which to choose this time? Amber-flecked eyes staring, glassy with hypnotic reverie, she strode along in the semi-gloom, her impish shadow writhing and twisting around her, hiding from the flickering lamps spotted about the library. Should it be one of the greying bendy ones, full of handwritten notes from authors long dead? Or one of the stout tomes standing to attention like steadfast soldiers protecting their bounty of knowledge? It didn’t really matter. They didn’t stand a chance, any of them, she knew every trick for cajoling even the most inaccessible of tomes to give up their treasures.
Hermione Granger had thought the Hogwarts library vast as a student, but as the newly-appointed Professor of Muggle Studies, it had expanded exponentially. It wasn’t, however, a magical enhancement. It was simply a matter of access. There were a vast number of additional rooms for staff—cell upon cell of dusty spaces that held books so rare that it had been suggested on more than one occasion that the greatest concern for the wizarding world in the last war wasn’t that the staff or students of Hogwarts might be blasted into oblivion, but that this collection of ancient and irreplaceable knowledge would be lost.
It was with the reverence that this statement demanded, that she addressed them. She whispered their names, crooned, caressed and inhaled their musty breath as she moved from room to room. She was suddenly glad she was alone (in fact she probably wasn’t supposed to be here so late), as anyone else may have mistaken her antics for the crazed lust of a stalker, which indeed she was.
‘Lust’. Mmm. She should have avoided that word. Even in the innocent space of her own head. Hah! Who was she kidding? The thought traffic that gambolled about in her mind was far from innocent. Sometimes it was so far from innocent that it scared her. And, she had to admit . . . excited her.
And that was it. Her resolve to be proper—a proper Professor—was gone. Dissipated. So tenuous was her hold on propriety that all it took was one word—‘lust’ to undo her years of politely acquired training. He had been right. That bastard Professor Snape had been absolutely correct about her appointment. It wasn’t on merit, it was because she was Headmistress McGonagall’s favourite, one of the golden trio. Sure, she grew up in the Muggle world and, therefore, should be reasonably qualified for the role. But Snape had completely thrown her confidence. It had taken only a week of snide remarks, smirks and snorts to debase her, to render her an awkward, bumbling student once more. To him, she wasn’t even an insufferable know-it-all any more. She was an insufferable know-nothing.
Agitated steps quickening with her breathing, she rounded the corner and started down a fresh row. She needed something dirty to read as a matter of urgency. Her jaw cracked in defiance against the sneering ghost of Snape who haunted her in a manner that made Peeves’ antics a welcome relief. His toxic beakiness (it probably wasn’t a word but it summed up his proboscis-led malevolence) had seeped into her brain like acid, etching a Snape-shaped hole, that she hadn’t managed to plug even through her years as a trainee. Well, now she would show him how ill-suited she was for the role. She’d find a filthy book and flog herself silly with it.
He was probably such a prude that he hadn’t a clue about sex. Where would he have gained the experience? In his unrequited fawning over Lily Evans? That was a low blow. Even for her. But she needed to knock him off the lofty perch that he occupied inside her mind. What did she care of his miserable sex life? The thought of even touching him disgusted her. Mainly because the thought of touching her probably disgusted him.
She huffed, fuelled by a mixture of defiance and arousal, more determined than ever to find something lascivious to revel in. After acquiring said book, she might take it to the top of the Astronomy tower and dance about naked, rubbing it all over her body and shouting her orgasm to the stars. Actually, she probably wouldn’t do that. It was too cold for one thing. And she had a new toy in her drawer that she hadn’t taken the shine off yet.
At the end of the row she found another door. Locked. Stealthily unsheathing her wand from the depths of her sleeve, she cast Alohomora and entered. Now this was interesting. Cabinets. Two of them. Glass fronted and . . . she rattled one by the silver handle . . . also locked. It was so dusky now that the moonlight through the small window did no more than accentuate the gloom. Casting Lumos, she peered into the cabinet. Ahhh! The discovery was both surprising and inevitable. She knew those dirty wizards and witches couldn’t survive on knowledge alone.
She leered at her bounty. Sex of the Ageless. Cockatrice – the man with three penises. The 7 year Witch. Titillating Tentacles. Gilderoy Lockhart Sex God (by G. Lockhart). A Snitch in the Snatch. Potions of Passion. Anal Need Not Be Banal . . . she shook her head, that didn’t even make sense. Only one had caught her eye so far—Potions of Passion. She wondered if her interest was piqued by her desire to flout the interests of a particular Potions Master. Regardless of her motivation, it might even prove useful—if she ever needed to brew anything to help her in that department.
Casting a cursory glance over both shoulders, more for affect than effect, she focused on the lock. It was heavily warded and the lock unnecessarily complicated considering that it was simply protecting a few dirty books. But she didn’t top her N.E.W.Ts for nothing. She was smart. After casting an array of deciphering and configuration spells, she had narrowed down her options and then set about casting a complex and methodical set of ward removal and lock picking spells that, within minutes, saw the cabinet door pop.
Swinging it open with one hand, she reached in and grasped the small book by the spine. “Thank you Mr Boats,” she murmured, noticing the name of the author. “I hope you can get me wet enough to sink . . . someone’s . . . sub.”
There was a scrape from outside. Her anxiously reckless hand slammed the cabinet door shut, more quickly than intended. Shit! That was loud! The seconds of breath holding that followed transferred her heartbeat from her chest to her eardrums, making it even more difficult to hear.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was . . . Holy Fuck!
The door was flung open and the man of her nightmares materialised—pale face framed in black, like death himself.
“Miss . . . Granger. What . . . do you think . . . you are doing?” Snape’s voice was low and dangerous, his black eyes penetrated and petrified her, like a human basilisk.
She couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak.
“I said . . . “
Suddenly his eyes dropped to the book in her hand. Lunging forward, he grabbed it.
“I’ll take that,” he hissed through the gaps in his yellowing teeth.
Despite her abject terror, she continued to cling on to it, finger to finger with him.
Her automatic response to the towering, and immensely powerful, wizard, even when he wasn’t turning up like an apparition from hell, was firmly anchored in the insecurities of her inner child. But, she desperately reminded herself, she wasn’t a child any more. She was an adult. And she was also a Professor, like him (well in title at least). He couldn’t tell her what to do—actually that sounded more like the truculent inner child. But, anyway, that feeble conviction would have to do.
“Professor, I have been given permission to access all of the books in the library,” she said, trying to sound mature and reasonable despite the obvious terror that was playing her vocal cords like a cello in the shower scene from Psycho.
“Were you given permission to disable the wards and locks . . . in the library?” His frown was so deep that it appeared to slice his pale forehead in two.
Hermione took a deep breath and lifted her quivering chin.
“I don’t understand why wards and locks are needed in the areas only accessible to teaching staff.”
He snorted and gave her such a withering glare that she was surprised she didn’t melt on the spot like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Possibly, to keep certain staff out,” he spat the last word in her face.
“I have just as much right to be here as you do,” she replied indignantly. “And I have just as much right to read the books in this area.”
He barked out a mirthless laugh. “Hah! Smut? Is that what you came . . . looking . . . for?”
Cheeks flaming in acknowledgement, she shook her head dumbly.
He lifted his chin to look down the curving ridge of his beak-like nose, lining her up like a target.
“It seems you are here by accident then,” he sneered. “I suggest you release this book at once and be on your way.”
She glared at him. She didn’t want the book that badly but she also didn’t want to kowtow to him. Not so easily. She had endured a constant week of it in the staff room, where she couldn’t respond. Now they were alone. Just the two of them.
“You release it,” she replied, her voice taking on a defiant edge. “And I’ll return it to the cabinet.”
It was immature. A feeble attempt to one-up him. But it was all the hyperventilating inner child could muster.
He sneered, dragging his eyes down her quaking form. He could dissect any and every element of her being—slice her to the very core with a few well-placed, razor-sharp words. But he was about ready to collapse after a long day of teaching, followed by hours of unproductive rounds. Also, he was determined not to appear equally juvenile to the witch before him, acquiescing with a disdainful jerk of his neck, as if he had just caught a whiff of something offensive.
“Very well.”
His obsidian eyes radiated cold like shadowy snow globes from the heart of winter. Hermione shivered.
Nothing happened.
She eyed him warily. Waiting.
His mouth twisted at the corners as his shoulders tensed and swayed a little.
She shook her head in confusion. What was he doing?
He gritted his teeth and clutched at the wrist of the hand holding the book.
His face suddenly turned pale—more pale than usual. “Miss Granger. I would like you to drop the book . . . Now!”
His voice, dark and threatening, was enough for her to give up any rights to the book. It really wasn’t a big . . . Ow! The muscles in her hand strained and popped as she tried to pry her fingers open. She couldn’t. Her hand seemed to be stuck. Fast.
He caught her small wrist in his long fingers, attempting to pull the book from her grasp.
“Ouch! Professor, stop it!” She tried to twist out of his firm hold, only just resisting the urge to thump him on the shoulder. “It’s stuck!”
“It can’t be,” he muttered.
“Stop it!” She yanked her arm back and he suddenly came with it, falling into her and pinning her against the cabinet with his tall frame.
His face, only millimetres from hers, washed warm breath, laced with peppermint, over her flushing skin. It was surprisingly pleasant but completely wrong.
“Professor!”
He lurched back to a standing position, his other hand running distractedly through his raven hair. She had never seen him so unsettled.
“I . . .” He ran the hand over his mouth and chin, a soft rasp of prickles whispering under his fingers. “I believe this book has been hexed.” His jaw flicked slightly to the side, as if his body was unable to prevent itself expressing its disbelief.
It took a few seconds for his words to sink in.
“Hexed? In what way?” Hermione continued to glare at him accusingly, as she rubbed her aching wrist.
“I believe it is a book binding spell.” His voice was level but his broad shoulders were billowing noticeably with the lungfuls of air he was sucking in.
“Book binding?” She stared at their hands, both clutching the spine of the book, index fingers kissing. “Well undo it then. You’re supposed to be one of the world’s most powerful wizards aren’t you?”
He threw her a contemptuous look, his jaw muscles bulging like walnuts. “If you had any knowledge hidden inside that rat’s maze of yours you might already know that book binding hexes require the correct release phrase.”
Hermione blinked. How dare he insult her hair.
“And if you had even a spark of inventiveness or initiative under that greasy mop, you might be able to come up with a solution!”
He glared at her and performed an unusual action which was probably intended to be an arm cross, but with one hand out of action, it looked like he was crossing his chest to make some sort of vindictive pledge.
They stood in silence. Awkward and angry. She was touching him. Only a small strip of skin on their index fingers was shared, but even that was too much. She was tired. She wanted to lock herself in her room and cry. She’d had a bad fright and even reading a lewd book was no longer a priority.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” she demanded, her fear having retreated to hide behind her burgeoning anger.
He sighed, looking uneasy. “It’s my wand hand.”
“What?”
“My wand hand is stuck to the book. I’m unable to cast . . . anything.”
It couldn’t be worse. Hermione doubted that two people could despise one another more. And here they were. Stuck together. Literally.
It was such a bizarre predicament that her mind had no purchase on how to proceed. It was he who finally broke the stalemate.
“We can’t stay here all night.”
“And where do you propose we go?” She propped her free hand on her hip in an attempt to look haughty but the action was decidedly diminished by her uncooperative other hand that continued to press against his. “My room or yours?”
“Neither!” he growled, clearly furious at his predicament. Not only couldn’t he get away from her, he had been rendered magically impotent.
“Can’t the book be destroyed? Cut in half or something?” Hermione threw out desperate ideas, hoping for a life line.
Without even attempting to disguise his contempt he responded. “The binding curse simultaneously binds the very fabric of the object, making it tamper-proof. It was originally intended to prevent thievery. Didn’t quite work did it?” he sneered.
“I’m hardly a thief,” she muttered.
“And yet if you hadn’t been so determined to undermine the library security system, imposed for good reason I might add, we would not have found ourselves in such an . . . unpleasant . . . predicament.”
Despite herself, she suddenly had an image of him guzzling down walnut oil—his baritone voice was so impossibly rich and slick, and had the disconcerting capacity to lubricate . . . just when and where she didn’t want it to.
Hermione inhaled quickly, attempting to reassert herself and divert attention from her need to squirm. “Look, I’m not going to apologise. You shouldn’t have tried to snatch the book out of my hand. I’m really tired and I need some sleep, so come up with a plan soon or I will simply march up to my room and Leviosa you like a helium-filled balloon behind me.”
She saw uncertainty flicker across his features again. She allowed herself an inward smile. It was a pleasant change to finally be on top. Why had she used that expression? Now she had the completely unbidden image of . . . no, no, no. Never!
“We will go to the potions classroom,” he snapped, turning on his heel and storming toward the door. Hermione lurched after him, dragged along by the palm of her hand.
She was hauled through rows and flung around bends like a rag doll, his long strides forging a sinuous path through the maze of rooms and, finally, out of the library.
“Professor!” she gasped, clutching at the stabbing pain in her side. “Professor you must slow down! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”
He glared over his shoulder at her. “Perhaps if you had chosen to wear more appropriate clothing you might not be experiencing such difficulty.”
Hermione bristled. She was wearing perfectly suitable clothing—a knee length fitted maroon skirt and loose cream-coloured blouse under her robes. Her sandals had a slight heel but nothing improper. She had been right. He was a prude. He probably found the sight of any flesh disgusting. He certainly ensured that his pale epidermis was only exposed in small translucent windows—fingers and face—and barely that with his hanging locks of greasy hair.
She only just stopped herself from telling him to go fuck himself. She was still touching him. It was disconcerting to feel that tingle, that rub. If she had been able to run away and hide, she would have given it to him, both barrels. But she could expect no such solace. Not yet.
Despite his vitriol, she noticed that his strides slowed marginally as he led them down corridor after corridor. Her calves were aching. While he wasn’t looking, she withdrew her wand and whispered a spell to transfigure her shoes into comfortable flats. Fuck him!
When they arrived at the potions classroom, distinctly sepulchral for the late hour, she was gasping breathlessly, while he looked like he had done nothing more than enjoy a casual stroll around the lake. She was aware that his own chambers could be accessed through an adjoining door but he made no move in that direction. Instead, he dragged two student desks together, propped small wooden chairs behind them and sat down at one, pulling her into the other.
“So this is the plan is it?” she rasped, her throat aching from the forced march.
He tapped the fingers of his free hand on the desktop, staring straight ahead, ignoring her.
Hermione sighed and stood up, drawing her wand. With quick, confident flicks, she transfigured two chairs into long wooden benches, side by side, and levitated a pile of soft polishing cloths from the corner of the room, transfiguring them into two plump pillows, mattresses (probably too thin but she didn’t have a lot to work with) and a blanket for each of them.
She dragged him officiously from his seat and made her way over to one of the benches, sinking down onto the mattress, then lying her woolly head on the pillow before pulling the blanket over herself. She refused to speak or even look at him but she could still feel him. They were touching, after all.
There was a loud protest from the other bench as he reached out and dragged it across the stone floor, close enough so that he could lie down also, with their arms and the book hanging between them like a collapsing bridge.
It seemed like only moments before the soft susurration of her breathing told him that she was asleep. Her arm jerked involuntarily, tugging on his. Perhaps she was dreaming about throttling him.
He was still furious. But mainly at himself. He was also bone-tired, barely able to think. Staring at her soft features, fluttering golden in the lamplight, he felt a sudden surge of something that he had to immediately suppress. He pushed it down until it felt like a hard lump in his chest. Until it felt uncomfortable, like resentment. It wasn’t, but if he was going to survive this. To survive her at all. He had to believe it.
Her lips shuddered slightly. It was fucking cold. And she was only wearing a skirt and blouse under her robes. Merlin! That skirt. His chest swelled again and it didn’t stop there, burning down through his abdomen to the forgotten member that had been hibernating for longer than he cared to remember. What the fuck was he going to do?
Sitting up, he pulled his free arm out of his robe, then drew the garment down over the arm that linked with hers. Passing the book through the sleeve hole, he carefully threaded it back up her arm and tucked the heavy material over and around her before returning to his bench.
He watched her for what seemed like hours before falling into an unsettled sleep.
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The Book that Binds *COMPLETE*

The Book that Binds COMPLETE