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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
- 10
- 11
- 12
A/N:
OO – ‘I'm still dying to know what went on in the past between them’ – it’s coming . . . just gradually :) ‘Maybe she can sit on his face and bring back his sense of smell.’ - *snort* - actually that’s probably what he would do. ‘*Giant doe eye* Please, sir, can I have some more?’ – bahahah, can so imagine you doing that. ‘He's got another batch brewing in his balls as we speak.’ – totally on the boil. ‘Bah! What the hell is she going to do? Go outside in the sun? And leave senor semen all alone on the couch?’ – Hahah, the new SS, I don’t think she’s quite ready for the sun but she’s got what she needs for now ;)
Kvarta – ‘I had 10h of field work today (3 cities) and I'm dead’ – wow now I want to know what you do! ‘this is sounding soooo wrong or right depending on the point of view’ – hahah ;) ‘this is so Snape, but given the time...he is quite tame and even...polite.’ – I agree, he certainly seems to have tempered his criticism a little. ‘If I develop some sort of unhealthy book fetish, you are to blame - just so you know’ – you already have an unhealthy book fetish as we both know :) ‘more about him than her actually’ – you’re right, I love how you picked up on that. ‘there's so much unsaid behind this scene, volumes that scream at the reader’ – yessss, thank you! Kisses and hugs to you and I hope you get a break from your travels. x
Norla – So lovely to hear that you enjoyed DIFTO and are enjoying this one too. I also love that you are now on the SS/HG bandwagon. :) Update for you to enjoy! x

Chapter 11 – Give and Take
Severus stares into the distance, fingertips absent-mindedly grazing his lips.
“Professor Snape?”
He blinks back to the moment. “Sorry?”
The student stares at him in shock, ladle wilting in her hand.
“What do you want?” he snaps, fixing his face with his trademark disapproving frown.
The student relaxes, clearly uncomfortable with catching him day-dreaming and relieved to be back on the receiving end of his, more familiar, contempt.
“We . . . we’ve finished . . . do we have permission to leave?”
Severus’ eyes scan the wary faces seated behind their cauldrons. They must have been waiting for a while . . . watching him.
“Go.” He tosses a dismissive wave in their direction and they quickly scatter.
He sighs as the door closes, drawing one long finger thoughtfully down his nose.
He is unused to this. Indecision. Uncertainty. Confusion. He rarely entertains such states. He finds them pointless. And yet he sees no obvious way forward from his current predicament. There is no concrete way to characterise this situation . . . this . . . dynamic. And so the appropriate behaviours elude him.
She would be back . . . for more. But more of what?
More medicinal semen? He simply the supplier. The ‘source.’
More snogging? He the test subject—the verification of efficacy.
Or was it something else? Indefinable. But undeniably there. The inky dregs of the past still lingering . . . staining them both?
Or could this be something new? A manifestation of their therapeutic exchange. A brief reciprocal dependence, biologically symbiotic but no deeper than that . . . an arrangement that would see them mutually benefit, simultaneously rehabilitating in order to move on with their lives?
He taps a finger against his bottom lip. No explanation seems satisfactory. None completely resonates with the roiling tension that vacillates between his chest and his groin. He is certainly not one to dwell on ‘feelings’ but if he were forced to explain them, he might surmise that he . . . liked her.
But it is complicated. And she has a similar array of dilemmas to negotiate.
Will she come to the same conclusion? And, if not, is he willing to continue as the ‘provider,’ to administer a ‘hit’ whenever she needs it?
He leans back in his seat, relaxing his legs apart. It would be disingenuous to feel used. After all, the moment that he realised he was coming in her mouth had been infused with such a gloriously raw sense of potency, something that he had given up on ever experiencing again, that he had almost wept. He felt alive. And perhaps that should be enough.
***
“Professor Granger, are you pregnant?”
“I . . . beg your pardon?”
The girl, whom Hermione now knows to be Sophia Langford, studies her closely.
“My mother told me that when women are pregnant, they ‘glow.’ I know that’s not particularly scientific. I imagine it’s related to hormone levels or something. But when I saw you, it’s immediately what came to mind. Are you sure?”
The girl’s direct manner is still disconcertingly familiar, and the topic of conversation disconcerting enough in its own right, that Hermione is glad that she decided to spring this little gem upon her when the rest of the class had left.
“I’m quite sure.” Hermione nods briefly, standing to collect the Muggle calculators and stopwatches that they had been using for the day’s activities.
“Oh, that’s good.”
Hermione stops to regard her. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to leave. None of us do. We all love you.” The girl’s blue eyes are infused with such deep honesty that Hermione finds herself flooding with a pervasive lightness that she gradually recognises as a rare moment of genuine happiness—not the sort of fleeting surge that she desperately clutches at before it disappears, but one that she allows simply to be . . . trusting that it will, when the time is right, be substantial enough to resurface.
“Have you found a cure then . . . for your hyperaesthesia?” the girl continues.
Quickly blinking away the mist, Hermione continues to pack, unsure of how to respond.
“Perhaps.”
“That’s even better,” Sophia gushes excitedly. “There’s something I want to show you—outside. I know you don’t go out very often but when you’re better will you let me show you?”
Hermione’s face melts into a smile. “I would love that.”
***
“Have you eaten, Professor?”
He halts before entering his door. She materialises in the corridor ahead. Was she waiting for him?
“Not yet.”
“Perhaps you will accompany me?” She takes a few tentative steps toward him. “. . . For a meal?”
His gaze slides down her. She appears to be wearing a dress . . . and a long thick shawl, her hair pinned up, a few loose curls drifting down her neck.
He pauses.
Then raises his eyebrows toward the door. “Give me a moment.”
She nods, a relieved smile flickering across her lips.
His rapid return brings further relief. But when he offers her his arm, her heart lurches and stutters as though it has lost condition with prolonged disuse.
The warm strength of his forearm beneath her fingers turns out to be more comforting than she could have imagined and as he measures his gait to accommodate hers, she is suddenly swamped with gratitude for her favourite insufferable know-it-all. Without the infusion of confidence and joy that she had provided, Hermione would never have had the courage to go there—to invite him to share this moment . . . fraught but acutely hope-filled despite the weighty expectation of so many years.
***
Stepping from the apparition point, Hermione inhales deeply. Although there has been no direct contact between her olfactory sense and his essence, she is quite positive that she can detect an improvement in that domain—a greater capacity to filter, to attend to the scents that are pleasant over those that are not. And that couldn’t be more of a blessing in this location.
The pier stretches before them. In the deepening dusk, the planks appear to melt into the inky darkness of the surrounding water, rendering the tiny restaurant at the end no more than a silhouette, embellished in parts by a flotilla of hanging ochre lanterns. Combined with the lilting strains of a distant violin, hovering like an invisible presence over the water, the entire visage is so enticing that Hermione feels herself being bodily drawn, as it had always done, like an alluring auburn flame to an enraptured moth.
Her hand is still curled around his arm but she senses in his gradual slowing, a similar reverence. She wonders if it is cautionary, an innate wariness. She dearly hopes not—but rather that he is simply indulging in the secluded beauty of their surroundings or perhaps, like she, remembering the magical ambiance of a meal by the water, having missed it for so long. The moment passes unspoken. She doesn’t know him well enough to inquire . . . perhaps she never will.
The gentle lap of water plays against the reedy violin as they approach, footsteps drawing out a rhythmic accompaniment from the pier’s old planks. Frothy gales of laughter spill out from a table under one of the lanterns. Hermione is drawn to the faces of the happy strangers, surprised that it is no longer with a pang of longing, but with a sense of communion, that she may now be included in such revelry.
Only then does she realise how tightly she is squeezing his arm. She wants this so much. To be part of the world again. And while this was supposed to be her ‘thank you’ to him—a tiny token of her gratitude, she wonders now if she is simply dragging him along to assuage her insecurities. Her eyes venture to his face, a striking blend of shadow and burnished bronze from the lanterns. It is difficult to tell but he doesn’t appear uncomfortable . . . and she hadn’t exactly forced him.
“Have you been here before?” she ventures, loosening her grip slightly.
“No . . . I would remember.”
Her mouth hitches momentarily. He does like it. She allows the hope to seep back in. Perhaps this is going to work out after all.
The door to the restaurant suddenly swings open and a waiter appears with a bottle of wine and two glasses in one hand and a basket of bread in the other.
“Hermione?”
“Jacob! How are you?”
An easy smile lights up his handsome face.
“How am I? We haven’t seen you in years. Vincent thought you must have found a new favourite.”
“Never,” Hermione assures him. “I’ve been away . . . And now I’m back.” She curses the tightness in her throat.
“Wonderful!” He nods. “And with company.” His gaze turns to Snape.
“Yes. This is my friend . . . Severus.” She hadn’t even considered that she might have to introduce him—but it feels surprisingly natural. “He’s not been here before.”
“Ah, then we’ll be sure to look after him.” Jacob raises an eyebrow. “Table outside?”
“Yes please . . . near the water.”
He delivers a slight bow. “Follow me.”
He leads them to a table for two at the very end of the pier, a sculpted glass bottle of oil and vinegar and a dish of condiments adorning a crisp white table cloth, the overhead lanterns reflecting perfectly in the glossy black water on all sides.
“Give me a moment to deliver these.” Jacob indicates the items in his hands. “And I’ll be back with your menus.”
Severus immediately steps around to assist Hermione into her seat before taking his own. She watches him as he sits, folding his hands on the table and nodding appreciatively. It puts her at ease. So much so that she instantly reaches out and grasps the fleshy part of his thumb.
“I understand that you find such discussions uncomfortable,” she murmurs quickly before he can interject. “But I must tell you how much I appreciate what you have done for me. And I would like you to consider this a very small token of my gratitude.”
His eyes fall to their hands before he swallows. “I’m glad to be of service.”
She looks at him quizzically, detecting something in his manner, his tone. Not irony . . . or even sarcasm . . . something . . . different.
“And here are your menus . . .” Jacob returns and Hermione withdraws, taking the proffered leather folder.
“Drinks?” he flips open a small pad of paper.
“Wine?” Snape glances at Hermione.
She agrees.
“A bottle of Nero d'Avola,” he states confidently, his pronunciation flawless.
“Of course.” The waiter delivers another small bow before slipping back into the shadows.
“It would seem that you are a regular here.” Snape regards her with interest.
“Used to be,” she admits. “Vincent and Jacob have had this place for years.”
“They’re a couple?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you’ve been . . . intimate.”
Hermione’s eyes snap up to his. “What makes you say that?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“So you naturally assume that I’ve slept with everyone who doesn’t like you?” she asks, her voice tight with indignation.
“That would require me to assume that you have slept with practically everyone in the English speaking world,” he drawls. “No. I can tell by the way he looks at you.”
Hermione’s anger is melted somewhat by his self-deprecation, the inferred flattery . . . and then there’s the fact that he is absolutely right.
“Perhaps . . .” She avoids his gaze. “But he’s still gay, so what does that tell you?”
“That he has poor taste . . . Which doesn’t bode well for that bottle of wine—I should have insisted upon seeing the list.”
He directs his disapproving gaze back in the direction that the waiter had taken.
Hermione stares at him. It was delivered with such liquid fluency, and followed by such a clever diversion, that she almost missed it—a compliment. A big compliment. A gargantuan compliment if the person delivering it was taken into account.
A small smile tugs her lips. Could he . . . like her?
Then reality sets in . . . no doubt he’s just trying to make up for his earlier offense.
The waiter returns with the bottle and uncorks it with a flourish before pouring a small amount into Snape’s glass.
Snape’s large nose lingers over it, nostrils flaring, before he expertly sucks in a mouthful.
Expressionless. He hands the glass back to the waiter. “Have you tasted this, yourself?”
“Yes, sir, we are extremely familiar with the entire range that we provide.” The waiter’s pearly smile falters.
“I’m afraid I find it rather . . . insipid.” Snape’s lip curls in mild disgust. “Perhaps you can provide something with a little more . . . body.”
Jacob’s jaw firms as he attempts to maintain his fading smile. His hardened gaze darts to Hermione for a moment, before he lifts his nose slightly in reluctant concedence. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good man,” Snape mutters after him.
The smile that had been threatening to emerge now edges across her lips. “He’s my friend,” she admonishes—but there’s no bite in it. She happens to find Snape’s dry wit on her behalf rather endearing. In fact, it is rapidly feeding into her burgeoning desire . . . into an escalating need, akin to when she’d kissed him.
The new bottle returns. Snape delivers a brief nod of approval this time, and their food orders are taken.
Hermione lifts the glass to her nose. It’s strong, but not overwhelming. And when she tips a small amount into her mouth, a welcome flood of pleasant memories comes with it. She swallows. There is nothing but taste—lovely and full and warming. She sighs with relief.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing . . . since your recovery.” Hermione leans forward, emboldened by her pleasure.
He regards her over his glass. “I expect that most of my movements have already been related to you by Professor McGonagall.”
When nothing further comes, she presses him. “Minerva has said very little.”
He takes a gulp and looks out across the slick surface of the water, to the point at which it blends with the night sky into nothingness.
“There is very little to say.” His voice is quiet, almost wistful. “Things have been very much as they are now—mercifully uneventful. Certainly nothing . . . of note.”
Whilst his statement is clearly intended to relate that his current bland existence is of his own choosing, Hermione senses that his life is somewhat lacking, or at least more mundane than he would wish.
“Surely the Ministry would have been keen to laud you efforts after you were awarded the Order of Merlin? I imagine that there would have been invitations for a range of high level positions.”
“I would have none of it,” he replies abruptly, his dark eyes flashing. “I had been used enough.”
His bitter tone and depth of feeling stab her. She wonders then if he perceives her as yet another . . . Another after their pound of flesh. Or rather their pound of—
“And you?” He leans back slightly to appraise her.
She sighs, trailing her fingertips around the base of her glass. “I would venture that my life has been even less newsworthy. My position at the law firm was terminated as you know. I spent a year trying to fix myself to no avail. I undertook my teacher training in record time. And now . . . I’m here . . . a Hogwarts Professor struggling to appear legitimate . . . and no doubt failing in the eyes of some.”
He looks at her hard. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Risotto for the lovely lady.” Jacob places a steaming bowl in front of Hermione before swivelling deftly and sliding Snape’s plate under his nose. “And the Fettuccini Napolitana.”
Hermione delivers a small smile in Jacob’s direction. Snape doesn’t respond, eyes remaining fixed upon Hermione. Sensing tension, Jacob leaves and Hermione finally meets Snape’s penetrating gaze.
“I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.” She places both palms on the table. “I apologise for bringing up my insecurities—I think the wine is already going to my head.” With that, she grabs her glass and takes another gulp. “But I am genuinely grateful that you are here because, without you, all this would be no more than another beautiful, futile dream.”
She picks up her fork and digs into her risotto. She was serious—she had dreamed of this moment—innumerable times. It had signified, for her, the end—the final demonstration that she was ‘better.’ The rich scent of the wine and stock, fresh herbs, as well as the aroma of aged parmesan wafts over her and she has to swallow down the drool.
Finally the fork makes it into her mouth and she is instantly in heaven. Vincent had always prepared an amazing risotto but this was beyond anything she had ever tasted . . . it was absolutely otherworldly.
Groaning, she closes her eyes, revelling in the soft creaminess of each pearly grain, the perfect freshness of the herbs, the salty bite of the parmesan. Each chew brings a new burst of rapture that has her moaning with mounting vigour. Finally she swallows with a wilting groan that she only realises sounds distinctly orgasmic once she has finished it.
Cracking her eyes open, she sees the smirk on his lips and places a hand over her own mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs in embarrassment. “But this is just . . .” She shakes her head, unable to articulate further.
“Do you require a silencing charm?” He continues to regard her with amusement.
She coughs into her hand. “No, I think I can . . . I think I can control myself.”
“I’m just concerned that that waiter will be wondering what I’m . . . doing to you.”
She may have disregarded it—let it pass as a throw-away line—but the way it is delivered, the emphasis on ‘doing to you’, lubricated by the slick reverb of his baritone—it strikes her right where she imagines her uterus to be. Hunching forward, she shoves in another mouthful before he can see the flames rising in her cheeks.
She follows each mouthful with more wine. And he does the same, elegantly forking pasta into his mouth, occasionally dabbing with a napkin and drawing deeply from his glass until the bottle is empty. They mainly comment on the food, a little on the ambience, and by the end, Hermione is feeling as good as she’s ever felt in her life. She’s undoubtedly tipsy. But she’s also deliciously full, not achingly so, and filled with a fuzzy warmth that pulses gently inside and out. Perfect. Absolutely perfect . . . except for that tiny smear of sauce right below his—
Leaning forward, she reaches toward his face, trailing the tip of her index finger just under his bottom lip. But before she can withdraw, she finds herself caught by the wrist. And held there.
His eyes lock with hers and she wonders if he is about to admonish her. But then, ever so slowly, his lips, flushed from the wine and feasting, ease apart and she has a rare glimpse of his tongue, emerging from the shadowy chamber of his mouth to usher her finger inside.
“Gods,” she gasps, shuddering at the intensity of moist warmth that he suddenly manages to concentrate on her single sensitive digit. As he increases the suction, his tongue rolls gently and the raw eroticism of the sensation, as though her finger has penetrated her own pussy, rather than his mouth, injects her core with a shot of molten arousal.
“Unnhhh,” she moans as the tip of his tongue glides up the underside, her head pitching forward, fingers of her free hand stretching and splaying in exquisite agony against the table cloth.
She never allows it to go this far . . . because of what is happening now. She can hear it, the harsh grating of her breath, her needy keening, and then there is the aching barrel of tension inside her, popping and straining as though it is about to explode.
“I assumed that she was responding to the food.”
Severus’ eyes swivel sideways. The waiter is there; the friendly smile is not.
Slowly he pulls her finger from his mouth, releasing it with a soft sucking sound.
“Not this time,” he mutters bluntly. “Bill, please.”
- 10
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete