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The Quickening	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 32428 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- 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
- 13
- 14
- 15
A/N - Puddingboo: I hope I can continue this story on too. Writing as I go is a pretty slow process. I probably should have had more planned before starting this journey but, hey, I’ve learnt a lot.
NightFairy: Yes the tide is turning. But it is sloooow! Are people feeling agonizingly unfulfilled I wonder?
OracleObscured: I am indebted again for your deliciously detailed and encouraging review. It made me smile a lot. I have included a scene in this chapter just for you. I don’t think you’ll have too much trouble working out which one it is. And, yes, I did do a lot of ‘acting out’ of the details. I wondered whether it was weird of empathic. I think it’s probably just weird. I have more to say but will leave it for ‘Getting Personal’.
Chapter 14
Hermione was concerned that the guilty pleasure of her lucid dream would be plastered all over her face when she entered the infirmary the next morning. Despite Snape bringing up their rocky past the day before, she had felt that the air between them was finally starting to clear. And now, the overfamiliarity of her intense evening with Dream Snape was, no doubt, going to make it difficult for her to re-calibrate back to dealing with Reality Snape.
Making things worse was the fact that, when she finally entered his room after a late start, he seemed to have made the giant leap from staring morosely out the window, to the far more disconcerting and entirely unfamiliar proposition of smiling. It wasn’t a smile to challenge the efforts of the Cheshire cat but it was a smile nonetheless. Corners of mouth turned up—Yes, that was definitely a smile.
Hermione was so shocked to see it that she actually turned to look behind herself in case she had missed something. Slowing to a stop just short of the bed, she found herself wondering if he was genuinely pleased to see her or if there was some sort of nasty surprise on the cards.
“Good morning.” He was lying back looking relatively comfortable despite the binds, trailing the long elegant digits of one hand slowly up and down the smooth metal of the bed rails.
It seemed a benign enough greeting, but she continued to appraise him warily. Something wasn’t quite right.
She swung her bag off her shoulder and clasped it to her chest, giving a tight-lipped smile—not quite trusting herself to trust him.
“So you got some sleep then?”
He nodded, glancing down at the charcoal pyjamas that clung to his form like a well-worn glove.
“These items of yours provided a high level of comfort. I wondered if you might have missed them.”
She was surprised that he had even considered it but also wondered what he was really asking.
“No, they’re just an old pair,” she gave a dismissive wave, not wanting to elicit a deeper probe from him.
Tipping his head back onto the pillow, he peered down his nose at her with interest.
“I’m pleased to hear you have other options,” he finally said, continuing to stroke the bar.
Deciding that the level of awkwardness had reached dire proportions, she broke eye contact and hurried behind the bed to where he couldn’t see her.
“Did they bring you breakfast and take you to the bathroom?” She crouched down to unpack her bag, glad for something entirely functional to occupy the conversation.
She heard him inhale deeply through his nose. “Yes, all inputs and outputs have been dealt with.”
His perfunctory response suggested he was less interested in discussing his care than in pursuing their previous exchange.
“Did you sleep well?”
As his question hung in the air, her mind started jumping about like a flea in a fit. Had she just imagined the note of amusement in his voice? She could never tell with him, he always managed to infuse any simple statement with annoying complexity. Or maybe it was just an innocent question that sounded far more loaded through the filter of her guilty conscience.
“Fine thank you,” she replied stiffly before transfiguring yesterday’s bowl with a flourish of her wand and heading to the bathroom to fill it.
“You don’t seem to be riding as high as you were.”
His voice reached her from the adjoining room. What a bizarre thing to say. It wasn’t a turn of phrase he would ever use. Not unless he was trying to make a point. Riding high? Now why would he say . . .
Oh my fucking god!!
A thousand tiny puzzle pieces that had been swirling in her mind since she had entered the room suddenly crashed together. She clapped a hand over her mouth, gaping with horror. She’d been exhausted when she’d finally gone to bed the previous evening. After hours without food and drink, she’d had a splitting headache and had felt around in the dark for a headache potion. But now the memory of drinking it turned her stomach to lead. Rather than the bitter motes of the healing tincture, the liquid had been crisp, cool.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
There was a damn good reason her dream had seemed overwhelmingly real. Oh Gods!
The bowl was overflowing all over the floor. She continued to watch it cascading onto her shoes, unable to assimilate all of the required mental processes to stop it. What had she done? Her mind was suddenly a hurricane, trying to whip all of her thoughts into sense. She circled around and around, looking at every angle. And there seemed to be only one possibility. Somehow her extracorporeal projection must have drifted subconsciously down to Snape’s room during the night. Holy fuck!
She put a shaking hand to her forehead. But there had been sound, smells, tastes—not like a normal projection. No doubt some parts had been inserted or embellished by her subconscious. She shook her head. It was going to be impossible to tell which elements were real and which were constructions of her over-active mind.
Then his words returned. ‘Riding high.’ The vision of her furiously grinding into his face as she came over and over again in his mouth caused her stomach to clench and she almost threw up. No wonder his behaviour seemed a bit odd.
He heard the distinct sound of water falling on the floor. “Do you need a hand in there?” he called.
He almost chuckled at his own provocative quip. Although directly behind him, he could just imagine her frozen to the spot, paralysed with dread. He’d suspected the projection had been subconscious all along. It had arrived more gently than ever before, bumping along his skin in the dead of night like a Flitterby. There was no particular direction to its movements—adhering to him, instead, like the electrostatic attraction of a rubbed balloon.
He remembered the sense of portent he’d felt—the way all things are rendered ominous by the eerie quietude of the small hours. And coupled with the fact that he hadn’t stopped thinking about her the entire day, its arrival had spurred the quickening into immediate action.
With his thoughts and feelings in disarray, it had taken him some time to work out how to engage with it. Gradually reigning in his galloping heart, he discovered that by focusing on his interface with the projection and the sensations surrounding it, he could influence its action, much like waves can toy with a drifting boat. And with his telepathic ministrations, the projection had undulated, in and out of the material plane. The more provocative his intentions, the more physical it became, until he found that it was following his directions, and even starting to express its own impulsions. He felt her gradually commit until she had inhabited the projection fully and was soon exerting her influence over him. His swollen and tender lips and slightly strained tongue could attest to the fact that she had, indeed, fully embraced the moment when it came.
“Fuck!” He heard her hiss, as the sound of water splashing abruptly abated.
The murmur of her urgently casting drying spells had him smiling again. In reality, it wasn’t fair to tease her with her subconscious exploits. But it was just so irresistible. She was irresistible. He sighed and readjusted his position in the bed. How had it come to this? It was only a day since she had washed his hair and already he was smitten. In fairness, his feelings had probably been building for a while before then. At least a week. He shook his head. Utterly ridiculous. He was a man committed to the long and unfulfilled obsession. What, then, was going on here? Just over a week? Admittedly, it had been an abnormally intense week, but still.
She was standing with her hands on her hips, looking around the bathroom at nothing in particular, wondering if she should just leave. How could she face him after what she’d done? It had all been subconscious, but it was her subconscious. The projection hadn’t ended up at his bedside by accident.
But then what? She couldn’t run away from him forever. If she was genuinely committed to trying to lift the curse, she needed to see the week through, no matter how uncomfortable it became. In reality, it was her fault that he was shackled in the infirmary in the first place. Without the extracorporeal projection, she wouldn’t have incited him to do the things he did. She chewed on her bottom lip. Or maybe he would have done them anyway. There was no control for this experiment so she’d never actually know—not a particularly scientific approach.
And that’s what she had to be. Throughout this whole week. Scientific. Clinically detached. She needed to treat her research and his care as the evidence base and translation to practice central to all good experimental protocols. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the ceiling, drawing in deep lungfuls of air. She could do it. She could face his smug derision. Then she would either get rid of that fucking curse or be out of Hogwarts. Either way, she would be liberated from having to deal with him any more. From having to be near him. Being near him was the problem.
Steeling herself, she cast levioso and steered the bowl over to his bed. He had been waiting quietly for some time and she wondered what else he had been working up for her. Without speaking, she propped two more pillows behind his head but, unlike the previous time, there was no prompting required for him to lay down for his hair wash. He closed his eyes, already more relaxed that she had ever seen him in the infirmary.
“Clinical detachment. Clinical detachment.” The mantra repeated in her head as she ran jug after jug of warm water through his hair. In reality, it probably didn’t need to be washed daily but she knew how much he liked it and building his physical, mental and emotional fortitude was going to be important for what was to come. As she started massaging in the shampoo, his eyes opened and locked with hers. His expression, although upside down, was surprisingly soft and the corners of his mouth drew up slightly, each time she raked across his scalp. He really was feline in his enjoyment. As she pushed her fingers through the hair along the side of his head, he suddenly winced.
“Are you okay?” She stopped her movements.
“I’m fine. But you were holding on rather tight,” he said.
Her lips parted as her abdomen convulsed. So that part had been real. She had actually grabbed his hair. And she guessed her efforts to impale herself on his tongue were probably also real. She broke eye contact, her face blood red. Avoiding the tender part of his scalp, she finished washing and conditioning his hair, not once looking at his eyes which seemed to never leave hers. Although he had mentioned it, his tone didn’t suggest that he was particularly concerned with the fact that she’d left him sore. But she was.
She’d hurt him to in the pursuit of her own gratification. How could that be alright? And yet he’d done the same to her. But he was under the influence of the curse. Did that make it okay? And maybe he would have done something like it anyway. He was a former Death-Eater after all.
She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her mind as she gently towel dried his hair. It was all too complicated. She was having trouble fitting everything into her black and white view of the world. It was becoming increasingly obvious that neither of them was black or white.
He watched closely as a feature film of emotions played out on her face. He was concerned that the one that seemed to emerge most was guilt. Although he had teased her, she had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. He had welcomed the projection, encouraged it and, more than willingly, given himself to fulfil her desires. She needed her to know that.
And yet. She was now pouring what looked like some sort of oil into her cupped palm. He watched as she rubbed her glistening hands together before approaching him and grasping his wrist. Slowly, she slid her oily fingers beneath the binds. The skin there had become dry and red after days of rubbing and, carefully, she massaged the oil in, working her way around his wrist until the entire area was covered. Then she reapplied more to her palm but, rather than moving around to his other wrist, she grasped his large pale hand in her small ones.
Fuck! His large chest inflated as he sucked in the thick air between them. He’d never felt anything like it. Her warm, supple fingers pushed into the soft flesh of his palm, gliding along the crevices and squeezing apart the pockets of tension. She worked her way, methodically, over all of the small muscles, massaging around the humps and valleys of his knuckles, along the tender ridges of his tendons and rolling the delicate webbing between her fingertips. Then she started drawing her fingers slowly down the length of his long digits. She captured each one in her firm oily grasp and slid gradually down to the fingertip, grinding gently as she went.
His eyes rolled back in his head before they fell closed, a soft groan escaping his lips. What the fuck was she doing to him? He had no doubt she was trying to make up for his sore head. She certainly wasn’t holding back. Gods! And his cock, like an eager puppy, was up and ready to get in on the action.
She moved around to his other wrist and gave it the same treatment before thoroughly disarticulating every fibre of his hand, leaving it feeling like the centre of his entire body. He continued breathing through his mouth, unwilling to disturb the sensuous bliss that had taken hold of him.
Through the comfortable buzz in his head, he faintly heard her open the bottle again but didn’t think about what it might mean until he suddenly felt something wrap around his cock. His eyes flew open. His member had managed to slither out through the hole she had transfigured into his pyjama shorts and now she was dragging those deft hands up and down its length. Her face bore the same determined expression that had seen her make jelly out of his hands. Clearly, she felt responsible for the current state of his cock too and was preparing to atone. He should stop her. It wasn’t right.
But it felt soooo right! A groan emerged from deep in his throat as she used both hands to slide the oil from the base to the head of his immense dick, rubbing one palm over the bulbous end like she was polishing a doorknob.
From the depths of his lidded gaze, he watched the muscles in her elegant forearms working, her slick fingers squeezing and the muscles in her jaw rippling faintly as she, no doubt, convinced herself that his release would simultaneously release her from the burden of her guilt. It wasn’t right.
“You don’t have to do this,” he ground out through gritted teeth, working hard to defy his body’s obvious preference to release the days of pent up come that were desperately trying to explode free.
She didn’t stop cranking his shaft as she looked up at him. “I know,” she said.
Despite the grimace that had seized his face, he managed to elevate a questioning eyebrow, telling her that he wasn’t convinced.
He saw her lift her chin in that familiar expression of defiance before she slowly bent down and lowered her hot mouth over the end of his weeping cock. With painful precision, she proceeded to suck him into another dimension.
“Uuuhhhh,” he cried out, gripping the rails with his oily hands.
She continued pumping his greasy pole with one hand as she slipped the other inside his shorts to fondle his weighty balls. Her tongue traced around and around the firm ridges of his head before probing insistently at the delicate hole as she continued to suck.
“Gods! I’m going to come!” he growled, thrusting his hips into her face, adding another layer of frenzied movement to her own.
He’d expected her to heed his warning, taking the opportunity to remove herself from the firing line. Instead, she drew back only slightly and squeezed his shuddering testicles as if to give the contents an extra push. Then she opened her mouth to him, pumping his spasming cock hard so he could watch his seed spurting up into her. After days of brewing and unfulfilled release, there was an inordinate amount of come but she didn’t pull away until she had milked the last drop from him, catching it on her, liberally coated, tongue. His deeply visceral groan was a mixture of relief and frustration as she closed her slick lips and swallowed.
Almost businesslike, she released his wilting member and picked up her wand, casting scourgify over him. As her wand hand came back to her side, he snatched at it, grabbing her firmly by the wrist.
She gasped as he pulled her toward him.
“You did nothing wrong,” he said, his black eyes locked upon hers.
She stared at him as her own eyes filled, nodding quickly as the tears began to fall.
“Listen to me.” His grasp tightened. “You did nothing wrong. You can’t take responsibility for everything. Do you understand?”
She shook her head as a sob broke from her chest. Tearing free, she ran.
- 13
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The Quickening