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Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- 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
- 9
- 10
- 11
A/N:
The FabMsS – So lovely to hear from you. And the fact that you created an account so you could review is amazing. I so appreciate it. Thank you <3

Chapter 10 – Old and New
“Well, well, it seems that the mustiness and gloom of the dungeons are doing you wonders!” Professor Sprout beams at her from over her teacup.
Hermione smiles shyly in return before sipping her own. So it is noticeable.
She’d also ditched the dark glasses and although she knew she was squinting terribly, it seemed a shame to not embrace the transition fully. Transition? That was probably an overstatement. She was feeling better . . . that was as far as it went. And there was always the possibility that it would go no further. In fact, she could easily regress. Certainly Snape’s behaviour earlier didn’t fill her with any confidence about the promise of more relief. In fact—
“Severus!” Professor Sprout’s eyebrows spring up in surprise as Hermione turns to see him approaching, tea cup and saucer balanced in one hand.
Hermione had never seen him approach or converse with anyone in the staff room to date, Pomona’s reaction verifying how out of character it was.
“Pomona.” Severus nods stiffly. “Miss Granger.” His black eyes slide to hers, the slight flexion of one eyebrow sufficient to indicate that it is she whom he intends to target.
Pomona instantly notices. Hermione realises with surprise that the other staff have also been conditioned. It is as though, like her, every nuance of Snape’s stern features, his cautionary expressions, his deft movements and, of course, his loaded phrasing have been encoded in their brains—solely for the purpose of self-preservation. They had all learned to read him . . . and to react . . . quickly.
“Oh is that the time? I must be off,” Pomona blusters, rattling her cup in her saucer as she nods politely and bustles away.
Snape’s eyes follow the Professor’s retreating form before he dips into his pocket, retrieving a small opaque jar and handing it to Hermione.
“I trust this will suffice.” His voice is low and emotionless.
She glances at him but his expression is similarly unreadable.
“Can I just say, Professor, that I—”
“No.”
That was rather emphatic.
She swallows her effusion, tempering it down to a murmured, “Thank you.”
He nods before turning away sharply, no doubt preparing to escape.
“Severus?” The soft brogue sounds behind them.
Hermione spins around.
“Hermione.” Professor McGonagall’s clear green gaze moves between the two of them, finally settling upon the jar in Hermione’s hand. “This looks promising.” Her withered lips cinch into a smile. “Has our esteemed potions master managed to brew you up something already?”
Hermione stares back, dumbfounded.
Minerva’s gaze returns to Severus.
“It’s more of a . . . supplement,” he mutters.
“Regardless,” Minerva inclines her head appreciatively, “I’m sure that Hermione is grateful for any assistance that we can provide.”
She turns her attention to Hermione, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh yes . . . it’s really . . . good,” Hermione states lamely.
An awkward silences ensues as everyone focuses on the jar in Hermione’s white-knuckled grip.
“Well.” Minerva folds her hands together. “You’re both clearly very busy. Please don’t let me keep you.”
Severus dips his nose almost imperceptibly before sweeping past her and out the door.
As Hermione makes to leave, Minerva touches her lightly on the arm. “Is there anything that you wish to discuss?”
Hermione takes in the concerned frown creasing the older woman’s brow and gives a small smile in response. “Thank you . . . but I’m doing well. I’m actually feeling rather . . . optimistic.”
***
“I think it needs to be fresh.”
“What?” he growls groggily through the gap in the door. All she can see is his nose overhung by eyebrows, fused in intense disapproval.
“It . . . it didn’t work very well. I think it might need to be applied as soon as it’s . . .” She pulls her dressing gown around her shoulders. “As soon as it’s . . . made.”
“It’s five o’clock in the morning, for Merlin’s sake,” he grinds darkly through the gap. “Couldn’t this have waited?”
“I know . . . I’m sorry.” She glances helplessly up and down the corridor as though hoping for support to arrive. “It’s just that I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you decided to see it that no one else could either?” he snaps.
“No . . . I just . . . I thought if you woke up and . . . and it was . . . you know . . . if you were in the mood . . . that you didn’t just . . . I just didn’t want it to be . . . wasted.”
“And what did you intend for me to do with ‘it’ instead?” She can hear the disdain in his voice.
“Well . . .” She hadn’t really thought that part through particularly well. “I thought perhaps you could . . . come and see me.”
“To do what?”
“To . . . give it to me . . . from the . . . source.”
“The source?”
“Yes . . . from your—”
“No.”
The door slams.
She stares at it.
And knocks again.
Moments later it flings open.
“Go away.”
“I’ll help.”
“What?”
“I’ll help. I’ll do all the work. You can just . . . sit . . . or stand . . . or read or . . .”
“Read?” He stares at her incredulously.
“Well . . . maybe not read but I’ll try not to disturb you.” She looks pleadingly up at him. “—any more than necessary.”
He folds his arms, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Please, Professor,” she rasps, only just circumventing the lump in her throat, feeling ridiculous but realising what a toll the long hours of sleeplessness and despair had taken. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you . . . I promise.”
He continues to glare at her for an excruciatingly long period, sucking the confidence from her like a Dementor until she finally lowers her eyes, turning to leave.
“Come back in an hour.”
***
She stands in his lounge room, trying not to stare at the array of stylish and fascinating objects spotted around his tables, shelves and mantelpiece—to say nothing for the vast collection of books taunting her from across the room.
“Where shall we—?”
“Here will suffice,” he interrupts, nodding at a couch beside the fireplace.
Hermione notes that his arms have remained crossed from the moment she entered . . . and look set to remain that way throughout.
He sits abruptly, legs resting slightly apart, and she realises then that she is going to have to kneel. It is going to hurt. Unless she . . .
“Do you mind if I sit beside you?”
He moves his head slightly to the right. She interprets the indication as a negative.
Taking a seat beside him, she realises how monumentally difficult the task is going to be. Notwithstanding the confusing gale of emotions that is already whipping around inside her—just the physical act, with someone as closed off as he, was going to be a battle. And then there is the fact that he happens to be Severus Snape, a universally feared and inherently formidable character whom she knows to be otherwise but so rarely shows it that she almost doesn’t trust herself to believe.
But when she looks into his eyes, she doesn’t see the expected conceit or derision. She sees unease, a simmering apprehension. He is as unsure as she. And yet he let her in. And he is here. That must count for something.
She wants to say something comforting, or diverting, or even vaguely useful but there are literally no words so she simply turns her body toward him, shuffles closer and reaches for his fly.
It seems a little direct, but touching him on the thigh or the chest, or anywhere else, seems infinitely more inappropriate—as though she is trying to seduce him or something. Which she isn’t . . . is she?
His eyes track her movements so closely that she can feel the weight of them dragging on her. The tension in his body winds until his dark angular frame seems so imposing, his countenance so prohibitive, his accoutrements so bloody impenetrable—as for some reason he’d seen fit to fully dress before allowing her inside—that her hands halt in their advance, hovering over his crotch, unable to proceed.
She bites her lip.
“Wha-t?” He breaks the word into two sharp syllables that shatter the last of her resolve.
“Can you please . . . remove it?”
His lips clamp shut.
“Your . . .” Hermione indicates with her head.
“I did happen to decipher your request,” he snaps, flicking his fingers at his fly to release it before sliding a hand inside. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”
She gives a shaky nod.
She hasn’t a clue what she’s doing.
Of course she knows how to do it. She’s touched enough penises in the past. But to be trying to extract someone’s semen . . . for medicinal purposes . . . that did happen to be a first.
Then he pulls it out.
And the memories flood back.
It really is quite . . . exceptional.
His nose lifts slightly as he drapes it casually across the dark fabric of his trousers. Even flaccid, its solid intrusion jabs at her insides. But she can’t afford to lose focus—to allow her body’s confusion to distract her. She is there for a reason. And he is allowing her there . . . for his own reasons. And she must remind herself that this is the only solution . . . that it works . . . or at least has worked . . . so . . . bloody . . . well. In fact, it’s the only reason she can now reach out and . . .
His abdomen immediately convulses, the breath spilling between his parted lips as she lightly brushes the surface, grazes the impossible softness with her fingertips. Her senses may be dampened but their acuity is still extraordinary. She already feels his essence pulsing beneath the gossamer surface, the microscopic chambers flooding as she encroaches.
The moan that escapes him as she dips her fingers forward, curling them around his blooming shaft, is so familiar that it robs her of her breath. She hadn’t expected this. Not to this extent. Not of this intensity . . . after so long.
Grasping him more fully, she strokes, his eyelids fluttering as his fingers flex into the arm of the couch.
A few steady jerks and some hot, heavy breathing from them both and he is at full mast . . . even more impressive.
He melts back into the couch, allowing her to lean in closer. But she makes the mistake of looking at him—checking his eyes . . . past habit. And she is caught there, again, in that deep, tarry black. She doesn’t recall such clarity—not under these circumstances. It was always intense, but tempered by a blurry distance.
Not this time. This time she is penetrated. Impaled. And the weight of his expression, the desire in his sinking lids, the dip of his covetous brow, and those lips, swollen and beckoning and—
His hand is on hers, encapsulating it, allowing her to finally tear her eyes away. He sets her a frenetic pace, a rapid blur of jerks just below the rosy bulb of his head as his moans deepen and his head tips back, throat working fiercely with each vocalisation.
He’s close. She leans over, face hovering above the flurry of stroking hands. She watches the tip disappear and re-emerge at a furious tempo, hoping she can time it right. And just as he releases a final cresting groan, she descends, opening her mouth over him and feeling the first shots of come enter her. She takes everything, riding each jerky shudder of his hips and squeezing him over and over to milk the last drops into her mouth.
When she sits back up, he is watching her, lips parted in shock. She should have warned him . . . too late. Looking away, she dips two fingers into her mouth, then withdraws slowly, rubbing the creamy fluid over her lips as she goes. Returning to her mouth she takes another large drop on her index finger and places it in the corner of one eye, inhaling sharply as she blinks through the pain. She repeats the process with her other eye before swallowing the mouthful and finally burying her face in her hands.
Silence.
Silence.
A rapid inhalation.
Then she blooms. Before his eyes she emerges, her fingers peeling away tentatively like petals into a new Spring.
Her smile is radiant, transitioning into bewilderment and then ecstasy as she runs her fingertips over her lips.
“Gods.” She releases a breathy sob. “I’m back.”
Her swimming eyes fix upon him and he wonders if she expects something more but, before he can react, she lunges forward, capturing his lips in her own and sucking them with a moan so visceral that it prickles his scalp. Hungrily she presses into him, her tongue driving forcefully into his mouth. He moves to touch her but she catches him with both hands. Finally she releases him. All of him. And stands.
“I just needed to ensure it had worked,” she explains breathlessly.
“And?”
“I’ll be back.”
- 9
- 10
- 11
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete