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Debaucery Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 26266 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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
- 9
- 10
- 11
A/N: OO - ‘Cue Hermione. (Duh duh daduh!)’ – LOL. See, with two of them I couldn’t tell if it was the wedding march or the heroine arrival! ‘Everybody's a little naughty in this one. (Just the way I like it.)’ – hahah, how will you go if they de-naughtify? ‘My brief brain-teaser before the reading. (I'm easily entertained.)’ – one does enjoy one’s petty amusements ;) ‘And all you need is one thread, and you can dismantle an entire sweater (or heart-shield as it were).’ – Awwww, I love this – catch the thread, young lady!
Anon – Glad you are enjoying. She probably was a little late responding though I would probably argue that complex healing is not something to be undertaken by just anyone. A cut is one thing but a dislocation, magical blast injuries etc. would require more specific treatment and you wouldn’t want to get it wrong. Having said that, I agree that Hermione should be a bit more active and so you’ve given me a few ideas for future chapters. Feel free to post any more suggestions, I always love them and they help with my thought processes. :)
Lurking Reader – ‘Yay catfight! So hoping to see a catfight in a chapter one day.’ – hahah – I need to think about this. And if it’s not in this fic, I like the idea for another one. ‘Sure to spice up a slow workday’ – LOL – Yup, I could do with a few more in my workplace. ‘Women can be vicious when they're angry!’ – of course we can! Especially when it comes to Snape!
Chapter 10 – Seducation
The chill hit her as soon as Hermione stumbled out of the apparition point. The uneven ground that fell away beneath her boots caused her to stagger a good few steps before she was able to lift her eyes to take in the surroundings. It may be remote Scotland but it was far from desolate—rich, rolling green hills as far as the eye could see, fading into the distant, dusky peaks of a mountain range. Turning slowly, she took in clusters of craggy grey boulders, huddled together like sentries on the hill above her, and one pillar in particular, dark and absolutely still except for a coil of smoke drifting over his left shoulder.
Hermione’s heart sank. She’d hoped to arrive before him—to choose the perfect vantage point from which to look down upon him as he attempted to orientate himself. Unfortunately it was now she who was left to stumble over the tufts of wet grass, slipping constantly as she lost traction. Trust him to choose the steepest bloody point to position himself. It was probably what she would have done, the best position from which to survey the surroundings, but since it was him and since he was a colossal bastard, it was now a deliberate ploy to unhinge her.
By the time she reached him, breath puffing out in thick clouds, she was feeling distinctly hot under the collar. He held his cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger, sucking in a deep lungful as his coal black eyes appraised her.
As she stood panting at him, she realized that she had absolutely nothing that she wanted to say, and since he made no attempt to acknowledge her in return, simply releasing the smoke in slow, cool drifts, she just turned away, awkwardly thumbing the straps of her backpack as she surveyed the scenery. There wasn’t a road in sight—or even a path. But a river shimmered in the distance as it snaked its way through the hills to their right.
She was totally disoriented. A detailed map was in her bag but she didn’t want to fumble around for it in front of him. He probably knew exactly where they were but she wasn’t going to ask. The only communication they’d had prior to the trip was a lone piece of parchment on her desk, his neat handwriting informing her of the apparition point and meeting time.
They hadn’t even discussed equipment, probably doubling up on everything—although the leather satchel he wore slung casually over one shoulder didn’t appear to contain a lot. Her eyes flickered surreptitiously over him—he’d probably shrunk everything to atomic size—he could have the Taj Mahal of tents in there for all she knew. In fact, she couldn’t imagine him getting by without a suite of lavish comforts. There was probably even some horny, drunken slut rolling around in there.
Hermione knew her current train of thoughts was unhelpful but he was already pissing her off. She’d hoped he would be awkward out here—totally out of place in his tailored suits and open shirts but he wasn’t. He wore a faded pair of black jeans that unfortunately fit him like a glove and a black woollen coat with a high collar under which he’d cinched a grey scarf of such fine knit that she found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. His raven hair had been tangled by the brisk breeze but it just made him look windswept and slightly rugged, unlike the self-strangling tumbleweed she knew hers was desperately trying to emulate.
Finally, when the awkwardness had reached nosebleed heights, she capitulated.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
He gave her a disparaging look before disappearing the cigarette butt with a flick of his fingers and starting in long confident strides back down the hill. He might have saved her the fucking trek, she fumed as she slithered back down after him. Hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, he turned at a gully near the bottom and started in the direction of the distant river. Although there were no distinct paths, there were well-worn animal trails and it was one of these that he led them along.
Hermione settled in behind him and was relieved to find that he set a comfortable pace, allowing her to keep up relatively easily. She might have even been able to walk beside him if she’d wanted to converse but she didn’t. Forgoing any communication was going to make the trip decidedly difficult but perhaps that was all that could be hoped for after their blighted past—a brief look around before returning to Parsons with nothing of significance to report.
As she trudged along, Hermione focused on the thick-soled black boots striding ahead of her, but it wasn’t long before her eyes had slipped up and she found herself staring at the swinging curve of his denim-clad buttocks. She was instantly annoyed at herself. The last thing she wanted was to be ogling him, any part of him, and yet she’d already found herself reluctantly admiring bits of him more than once.
She really must be depraved. This bastard had tried to demean, intimidate and, ultimately, throttle her. She couldn’t afford to drop her guard with him at any point, so positioning herself directly behind his hypnotic arse was not a good idea. If only she knew where they were heading, she might be able to lead the way. Then he could watch her arse. No, that’d be worse. At least she had a modicum of self-control. He was a total loose cannon. Or had a totally loose cannon. Actually, that’s still unhelpful, ‘Mione.
Sighing, Hermione lifted her head to focus on the countryside. It really was stunning. And of course it reminded her of her years at Hogwarts. The crisp air, low grey skies and billiard table green filled her with a level of nostalgia she’d not felt in years. It made her appreciate the opportunity to be away from London, even if it was with the last person on earth with whom she would want to share the occasion.
They continued winding for some time along the base of the hills until they eventually came to a flattened area where Snape suddenly stopped. He frowned at what appeared to be a small rock positioned in the centre of a grassy expanse. Cautiously he approached, looking upward to scan the sky in both directions. Hermione hadn’t a clue what he was looking for.
When they reached the small mound, Hermione saw that it wasn’t a rock but a sheep lying on its side—dead. They hadn’t seen any other animals so this lone one, bereft of life, seemed a little unusual, but there were probably farms nearby that it could have strayed from or this could even be a common grazing area, it was certainly large and flat enough.
Despite no obvious sign of trauma, Snape continued to frown.
“What is it?”
“A sheep,” he responded drily.
Hermione only just held in a nasty retort.
“Why are we looking at it?” She enunciated each word.
He didn’t respond but squatted nearby, running a hand over the grass.
Hermione huffed. “Are you going to explain your sudden fascination with a dead sheep—one that could have died of natural causes for all we know?”
He lifted his eyes to hers, arching a dark eyebrow before standing and walking over to the animal. Digging a boot into its stomach, he pulled upwards.
“Shit!” Hermione gasped, bringing a hand to her lips.
The sheep was totally empty, devoid of internal organs—effectively an empty woollen shell.
There was something else strange about it. “Where’s the blood?”
“Cauterised,” he replied, eyes roving over the carcass, taking in everything.
There was only one animal she knew of that could do such a thing.
“You think a dragon did this?”
“It did.”
“Where are the scorch marks?”
She realized then, that Snape must have been looking for them earlier when he was studying the ground.
“It’s been moved.”
Instinctively, Hermione knew he was right. Concealing dragon activity from Muggles was extremely difficult and involved a lot of Obliviation, animal replacement and removal of evidence. However, this didn’t appear to be the work of anyone from the Ministry. They would never leave a carcass out in the open like this.
“I’ve never heard of dragons feeding on internal organs exclusively—they usually eat the meat too, in fact that’s all most of them eat. Are we dealing with new dragon behaviours?”
“No.” Snape let the sheep’s stomach fall closed. “We’re dealing with new dragons.” His dark eyes flickered across the horizon before he turned away and continued in long, swift strides down the trail toward the river.
Hermione’s head was suddenly abuzz with a hundred questions she wanted to ask him but she was still extremely wary—he was hardly forthcoming and she was still struggling to erase the image of Katie’s excruciatingly enthusiastic blow job from her mind’s eye.
But Snape’s knowledge was surprising. Perhaps he hadn’t just been fucking people in his office after all—maybe he’d actually been doing some work. In fact, his level of understanding made her own preparations look a little under-done. But it also encouraged her to consider the trends she’d been researching in a whole new light. And it turned out that she had plenty of time to think as he increased the pace of his strides until she had no choice but to fall behind, watching him draw away until he blended into a dark copse of trees nestled by the river.
Hermione slipped the wand from her sleeve, unable to shake the uneasiness that had captured her since the discovery of the grisly ‘sheep shell.’ The thought of dragons, hungry and ready to eviscerate, swooping out of the sky to snatch her away for a less than satisfying snack had her glancing over her shoulder every few steps. And if she did happen to be taken, it was possible that Snape wouldn’t even know—considering that he’d now disappeared from view. Even if he was aware, she didn’t expect that he’d bat an eyelid. He’d probably rejoice with a lazy cigarette or two before returning to report yet another unfortunate casualty of Ministry business.
The option of resigning resurfaced again in her mind. It wasn’t too late. She could just stagger back up the hill, Apparate home and write the letter. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about having her guts eaten, or having to deal with a man who was clearly looking to get as far away from her as possible. But the thought of giving up a role that she’d worked so hard at made her feel physically ill. It was unfair to be driven from it by some licentious interloper masquerading as a legitimate employee. At least that’s what she would have thought before watching Sherlock Snape expertly dissecting the crime scene. Clearly the drugs and alcohol hadn’t killed every brain cell in his head; he was still fucking smart. She scratched her own head with her wand in irritation. These circular arguments were useless for anything other than fucking her up. And she definitely didn’t need to fuck herself up, not when she had someone with her who was more than capable of doing it.
Reluctantly, she quickened her pace. The sooner she reached the protection of the trees, the better she’d feel. However, as she approached, the spooky silence of the shadowy trees, spindly and twisted like gnarled fingers, made her shiver. Where was Snape? She thought about calling out but quickly decided against it. She didn’t even know what to call him anymore. ‘Hey, Asshole!’ didn’t seem quite right. Padding her way between the trunks, she suddenly caught a whiff of smoke. Torn between being pissed off and relieved, she followed the scent through to the other side of the narrow forest, which opened into a clearing beside the river. Snape was there, no longer smoking but still ignoring her as he stared intently at the ground.
“Are we crossing here?” she asked impatiently.
She may as well have not spoken. He moved forward a few paces before turning to look up the river. This whole silent detective routine was starting to wear thin. Hermione huffed expectantly but when she received no acknowledgement, she decided that she may as well get on with her own investigations. She was one of the most knowledgeable people in the Wizarding World about a diversity of flying beasts and she’d intended to take this opportunity to look for evidence to explain their declining numbers.
Turning slowly, she gazed up into the trees around her and soon noticed a small matted pocket attached to the trunk of one. It was a nest—mud mixed with feathers and river reeds. She immediately identified it as belonging to the Blue-throated Wyntle—a rare species and one whose numbers had declined dramatically in recent months. It wasn’t the first time this had happened—Wyntles were highly sought after by smugglers as their magical song was sleep-inducing. A considerable profit could be made by poaching and selling them to desperate parents for their restless children. However, it seemed likely that something else was going on this time, especially since they weren’t the only species on the decline.
She needed a closer look. Slinging her backpack to the ground, she glanced over her shoulder to see Snape poking about in the mud by the bank. He didn’t appear to be using his wand at all. She wouldn’t either. She’d climbed plenty of trees with Harry and Ron in the past. In fact, she was far better than either of them. Grasping the trunk, she wedged her toe into a small knot and lifted herself enough to grab the lowest branch. Swinging upwards, she grasped a higher branch with her other hand and found another depression for her foot. Pulling with her arms, she reached for the next branch up but suddenly her foot gave way and she slipped.
Flailing and kicking, she slid further until suddenly there was someone beneath her and a strong hand rammed up into her backside. In fact, there was a thumb now pressing between her pussy lips and four fingers on her arse, one between her cheeks.
She gasped in shock, glaring down, only to be met by a classic Snape eye-roll.
“Believe me, if I’d touched you there on purpose, you’d know about it,” he muttered darkly.
Hermione felt herself flush scarlet before placing a foot on his shoulder and levering herself up. She heard a muttered, ‘shit,’ as she placed her other foot on his head and pushed up to grab the branch. Pulling herself into the tree, she refused to look down—perhaps if she ignored him, she could pretend that none of it had happened. But she could still feel the sensation of the intense and, apparently inadvertent, ‘pussy clamp’ and it was making her stomach turn somersaults.
Gathering herself with a few shaky breaths, she climbed the remaining branches until she was able to stand high enough to peer into the nest. It was empty—of birds at least. But there were remnants of eggshells and quite a large amount of blood. It was unlikely that the babies had hatched. They’d been killed by something and probably eaten. Few predators usually bothered with the Wyntle as they were tiny birds with little meat on them. If something had climbed into the tree to take these, it must be quite desperate—a worrying sign.
What was nearly as worrying, however, was the fact that Snape was already at least a hundred metres up the riverbank. Apparently he’d seen fit to leave her in the tree she’d nearly fallen out of. What did that say about him? Possibly that he didn’t appreciate receiving no thanks for saving her. Or that he didn’t enjoy his head being trodden on. She’d been too flustered to respond appropriately and now she just looked like an ungrateful cow. No wonder he’d left.
Hermione pulled out her wand and cast Leviosa, lowering herself gently toward the ground until she landed safely. Grabbing up her pack, she jogged after Snape, wondering how she was going to get through the rest of the day with him, let alone a week . . . or more.
Hermione followed Severus for the remainder of the day, just keeping him in sight. She ate the sandwich she’d packed as she walked, fearful that if she stopped, she’d lose him altogether. As the sun sank in the sky, it turned even colder and Hermione became worried that he would keep walking despite the fading light.
Finally, she reached the peak of a hill to find herself in a clearing where Snape had already lit a fire and was flicking his wand over a pile on the ground which gradually unfolded, growing into an impressive looking tent. Hermione approached, dumping her bag on the ground before collapsing in a heap, utterly exhausted but glad for the warmth of the crackling fire. She closed her eyes, unable to recall the last time she felt so tired. Or so alone. Snape had the uncanny ability of making her feel more alone that she would if she were actually alone. He’d mastered the art of snubbing and was obviously determined to make her feel well and truly snubbed.
After a few minutes, she managed to prise her eyes open to see Snape’s tent up and a warm light glowing within. Through the doorway she could just make out a comfortable looking armchair and his dark form reclining within—a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a pile of parchment on his lap. She could have cried. He was all competent and comfortable, and she was a haggard mess, lying on the damp grass, barely able to move. It was supposed to be the other way around. Wasn’t he the one who’d lost the plot—who was supposed to be spiraling toward some inexorable extinction?
Reluctantly, she pushed herself up, staggering as she returned to her aching feet. Grabbing her pack, she pulled out her shrunken tent before tossing it onto the ground, a safe distance from his. Muttering a few incantations, she expanded it into a single-man size before managing to transfigure the cloth walls, so that they reached a two-man size, giving her a little more room. Her transfiguration skills weren’t even close to those of Snape’s whose two room, full height, tent mansion made hers look like a comparative slum, but this was the best she could hope for in her current state. Pulling out a tiny sleeping mat, she enlarged it until it was her length and then transfigured it so that it was more like a blow-up mattress; not particularly comfortable but, again, as good as it was going to get. Tossing the mattress into the tent, she threw a sleeping bag and pillow in after it before carrying her pack back over to the fire and pulling out the camping stove.
She was starving. Luckily the stove was magical and would cook her food far quicker than any fire. In no time she’d pulled out a knife, chopping board, meat and vegetables. Tossing some minced beef into the pan, she followed with onions and garlic before adding chopped vegetables, a tin of tomatoes, herbs and seasoning. Carving up a loaf of bread into chunks, she buttered it. Moments later, everything was ready.
Hermione transfigured her spoon into a ladle and slopped a large serving onto her plate before sitting cross-legged by the fire, about to dip her bread into the mouth-watering sauce. Then she looked up. Snape was still in his chair. The glass in his hand was empty. She doubted he’d eaten. In fact, she hadn’t seen him eat anything the entire day. Maybe he planned to survive on a steady diet of cigarettes and alcohol alone?
She didn’t have another large plate, so she took her bowl from her bag and filled it with stew before placing two pieces of bread on a small plate, grabbing a fork and carrying it through to his tent.
He didn’t look up as she stood awkwardly in the tent opening.
“I thought you might be hungry,” she mumbled before stepping in and placing the bowl and plate on the small table beside him.
Without waiting for a response, she retreated—as though delivering feed to some volatile, wild animal. And in some ways he was—she found him quite unfathomable. Returning to the fire, she resumed her seat and devoured her dinner with relish. It was one of the most enjoyable meals she’d consumed in a long time. A day of exercise in the freshest of air had heightened her hunger and senses. There was something to be said for simplicity and gratitude.
“Thank you.”
Hermione jumped at his voice. She certainly hadn’t expected gratitude in return—not from him. He was holding out the clean dishes to her.
“That was quite—“ He seemed to be searching for a word that was clearly foreign, “—tasty.”
Tasty? Hermione nearly laughed. That was definitely not a word she expected to come out of his mouth.
“You’re welcome.” She gave a small smile before dipping her eyes back to her plate, wiping a crust through the remaining sauce.
When she’d polished off every scrap, licking the last morsel from her thumb, she discovered that he’d moved a stump of wood over to the fire opposite her and was now sitting with his back propped against it. Hermione watched as he reached into his pocket and brought out a small book, flipping it open to the middle before starting to read, his brow furrowing in concentration. The glow from the fire cast his skin in bronze, all except the dark locks that fell across his brow and his mouth which was lost in the shadow of his prominent nose. Again, she was surprised. For some reason she’d imagined that when he’d cast aside his past life, he’d rejected all that it included. The idea of him still being an avid reader was comforting—as though some of the old Snape might still be in there.
Hermione quickly cleaned away the dishes before packing away the stove and retrieving a book from her own bag. It was one Ginny had loaned her. They didn’t always share tastes so it was a bit of a risk bringing it with her but being a collection of short stories, she reasoned that if she didn’t fancy one, she could always move on to another. As it turned out, the stories were very well written and she was soon so lost in them, she completely forgot where she was. When she came to a funny part she laughed out loud, and was surprised to hear a deep voice respond.
“I enjoyed that one too.”
Her eyes snapped up to see him looking at her, a curious expression on his face, the corner of his mouth hitched up in the ghost of a smile.
“You’ve read this?”
He nodded.
She couldn’t think of anything remotely suitable to say. “Oh . . . okay.”
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer before returning to his book. Hermione’s insides squirmed. She tried to focus on the words but could no longer concentrate. All she could think about was inexplicably enjoying sharing the warmth and light of a fire, and appreciating a good book, with the person she’d all but wished dead less than twenty-four hours earlier. As she turned the thought over and over like an overcooked pancake, he rose and shoved the book back in his pocket. Distractedly, he turned away and headed with quick strides into the darkness. She sat up straight, wondering what on earth he was doing, but then heard him in the distance, chanting the incantation for a security ward.
She let out the breath she’d been holding. It was reassuring to think that they would be protected during the night but also concerning that she was still unsure what he was protecting them from. Had he heard something? Sensed something? He was away for some time and when he returned, he delivered her only a brief nod before entering his tent and closing the door with a quick flick of the zipper.
Hermione stared at the fire. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to know, but there was such a weight of blighted history between them that any attempt to broach it she sensed would break the tenuous thread that now hung between them. Sighing, she doused the flames and cast Lumos to locate her toothbrush and toothpaste in the pocket of her pack.
And that’s when she found it. The small blue bottle—Ginny’s Amory potion. How the fuck had she managed to get it into her bag?
If the fire had still been ablaze, she would have thrown it in there, smashed it to smithereens. Why would she want to lust after Snape? How would that help her? Or him? She was furious but she shoved it back into the pocket. How dare Ginny tell her she was in need of a damn good fucking. She wasn’t that desperate. Not desperate at all in fact.
Angrily, she brushed her teeth before crawling into the tent and pulling the zipper closed behind her. Rolling about awkwardly in the close confines of her tiny canvas shell, she finally managed to change into her pajamas. She fucking hated tents. They didn’t hold any good memories for her. And now she was alone in one, more claustrophobic than her bedroom, and sleeping on a fucking blow up—
“Shit!”
Hermione quickly re-lit her wand before dropping it onto her bed. Instead of a hard plastic mattress, there was a soft, downy one—thick and positively luxurious. Snape must have done it.
A lump swelled in her throat as she slipped into her sleeping bag and tugged her pillow under her head. The sense of her weary bones being cradled within the soft warmth made her melt.
“Thank you,” she croaked, her voice so small, she wasn’t even sure if he’d heard.
But as she descended rapidly into sleep she thought she heard something—a voice, low and sonorous, drifting on the light breeze. “You’re welcome.”
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Debaucery *Complete*

Debaucery Complete