Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 14
- 15
- 16
A/N:
LissaD – ‘If you have a way for me to send you the chapter (when I get to it) for pre-approval, I’d be happy to do that to make sure it’s respectful in your eyes.’ – I’m sure anything you write would be more than respectful. I don’t have any concerns at all. But if you want to share it you can PM on fanfiction.net if you are on there? (I’m DesertC) Otherwise I can give you my email here. ‘I welcome anything you’ve got - positive or constructive’ – I’ll definitely be reading more. My life is a bit complicated at the moment so I am simply writing to stay sane between crises. I’ve not done a lot of reading but let me assure you I will get onto it. Glad you enjoyed the last chapter x.
OO – ‘as if she were making love to him with her mouth, showing him she cares with each caress.’ – yesss, I was really hoping that was how it would be interpreted. ‘His willingness to accept what he can get (but being delighted by an offering of so much more)’ – yes, I think he’s being quite practical as much as anything here but, as you say, realising that there is so much more potential. ‘I think real solitude is difficult for some people to contemplate, and it's a much messier and desperate state than the poets would have us believe.’ – one of the most beautifully poignant things you could have said. ‘A pitch of different color.’ – LOL. I’m thinking I’m going to need to put a ‘cricket pitch’ or something similar in one of my fics just to try to catch you out :) x

Chapter 15 – Near and Far
A rolling hush descends over the Great Hall. Severus looks up from the careful dissection of his kipper to see her standing just inside the doorway, hands clasped before her in an attempt to appear casual, but the white of her knuckles sufficient to indicate that she is anything but. She forces a smile and makes her way over to the empty seat to his left, footsteps echoing in the unnatural quiet.
Gradually both staff and students resume their conversations. Whispers are exchanged with little discretion. There are short bursts of laughter. She does well to ignore them, murmuring a quiet order to the house-elf in service who promptly nods and disappears.
She busies herself with straightening her cutlery, draping a napkin across her lap and carefully avoiding his gaze.
Her eyes wander over the bobbing sea of heads. She smiles. His eyes trace the direction of her own. Gryffindor table . . . a beaming face and frantically waving hand. Why isn’t he surprised? The other insufferable know-it-all. Two peas in a pod.
He feels an inexplicable warmth—unusual but not unpleasant—still a contrast to the usual buffer of derision that he tends to pack around himself. But it is simultaneously worrying. Is he, in fact, going soft in his old age? The use of the phrase ‘peas in a pod’ is of particular concern.
Her breakfast arrives, toast and jam, delivered with a courteous bow that she graciously returns. That warmth again. He frowns and looks away . . . nauseated by his own wetness.
Clearing his throat, he resumes his breakfast but finds that his entire attention is on her. She commandeers his periphery with little more than the sharp scrape of butter on toast. And yet it is clearly far more than that. Her departure the previous evening had been swift—a final tender press of her lips against this own, cinching her dress closed before slipping away.
And, again, he’d had too much time to think. He’d been practically catatonic, staring down at the woodgrain of his desk—wondering at the inexplicable flurry of sexual activity that it had witnessed in recent weeks. His hands had trailed over the oily smears of their fingerprints, his and hers, daubs of desperation and lust laid down as each had taken what the other had had to give. It had all been sublime—like a fantastical dream—one he’d clung onto for years before he’d been forced to accept the bitter truth that his deficits were permanent.
And now this. Strawberries—the ripe scent, rich and sticky, floods his nose as she spoons generous dollops onto each of two slices. Extraordinary. And it isn’t the only sense to have improved. Indeed, when he’d first entered her—when his fingers had found their way inside her silken lair, sliding along the slick warmth of her walls, he’d known. He’d felt every twitch and pulse of her—how the pressure of his tongue on her clitoris had caused her muscles to hitch, to clutch desperately at him. And he’d thrust in deep—deeper than he perhaps should have, but he’d wanted to feel it all, to explore the unique contours of her, to immerse himself in her arousal, and to heighten it, engorging her, so that when she finally gathered, held shuddering on that exquisite precipice, before shattering—collapsing spectacularly around him—it would be something that stayed with her long into the night.
His mouth is hanging open. She’s watching him. He closes it.
What is that? Kipper oil? Hermione focuses on the glistening smear below his bottom lip. Whilst she doesn’t have any particular predilection for oily fish, the sight of it instantly stirs memories of the previous evening . . . the aftermath of his feasting . . . but that time it had been her own juices on his lips.
Her insides instantly surge and she has to look away. Quickly reaching for her tea cup, she takes a boorish swig while her mouth is full, realising that there is no way the toast is going to traverse her dry throat without help. Swallowing with some difficulty, she catches him looking at her and gives a small, shy nod before looking out over the boisterous tables, teacup balanced between her fingers as she pretends to wistfully ponder her past.
But when her eyes stray back to him, she notices the tip of his tongue dipping out to swipe away the oil. She is transfixed. His entire mouth, its blend of noble lines and sensuous curves is just so bloody delicious that she could very easily bite it again. Remembering herself, she glances around . . . but perhaps not here.
She picks up her toast to bite it instead. Something brushes her other hand. His—reaching for the pepper grinder.
“I could have passed it to you,” she murmurs. “You only had to ask.”
“Indeed,” he responds, not looking at her as he cracks pepper over his plate. “If only it were that simple.”
Her chewing slows as she watches him resume his meticulous slicing.
“Perhaps it is simpler than you presume?”
His eyes flicker sideways, briefly scanning her face, before he places another forkful between his lips. Chewing slowly and thoughtfully, he finishes before resting his cutlery-laden hands on the edge of the table.
“Very well,” he mutters quietly. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
She feels a smile tugging at her lips but wills it to abate, sensing that her response is important. “Of course.”
He nods, shoulders relaxing noticeably before he proceeds to complete his meal in silence.
Hermione spends much of the remainder with her mouth hovering over her teacup, taking tiny sips in between tiny smiles. She would never have considered it possible, but Severus Snape was actually rather sweet and, sort of, cute. Not that she would ever tell him such a thing. Especially since she had already glimpsed the other extreme . . . wild, potent and exceedingly sexy . . . a side that she liked just as much . . . if not more.
***
“So, can I ask where we are?” Hermione gathers her shawl around her as she glimpses the oily skin of a river slithering beyond the weeds and concrete of a moonlit vacant lot.
“Cokeworth.”
She looks up at him. Little is discernible from his shadowed features but his arm is tense beneath her fingers. The name isn’t new to her . . . but the only time she’d heard it previously was by his bedside—tangled within the slurred mutterings that often accompanied periods of fever. She had gathered then that it was a place of prominence in his life . . . his home town?
“Did you grow up here?”
“Yes.”
The response is not abrupt. If anything, it holds a hint of uncertainty. She bites her lip in the darkness, quite taken aback by the fact that he has brought her there as it clearly isn’t to show off—the decrepit state of the derelict buildings speaking to an underprivileged past.
They walk in silence.
At the main road, they turn right toward the river and immediately encounter a small pub, a panel by the door announcing in tired lettering, ‘The Shipwright Arms.’
Severus holds the door open and she enters a surprisingly warm and cosy room, panelled in dark wood, a fire leaping in the hearth. A few patrons sit by the bar; others occupy tables and booths, chatting quietly.
The barman immediately raises a hand. ‘Ay-up, Sev.”
Severus nods. “Tony.”
“Pint of the usual?”
“Good man.”
“And for the lovely lady?”
“The same,” Hermione interrupts before Severus can respond.
A slight inflection of his eyebrow hints at his surprise before he guides her to a small booth in the corner. She sinks into the comfortably padded seat as he takes that opposite. Immediately she senses the warmth of his long legs in the close confines, not touching but necessarily interleaved between her own.
“Not quite haute cuisine.” There is a slight hitch to his mouth . . . almost a smile. “But the fish and chips are very good.”
“I haven’t eaten fish and chips in years,” she smiles enthusiastically. “It’s one of the things I’ve missed most.”
He nods, looking a little pleased. Their drinks arrive and Hermione immediately lifts hers toward him.
“To our second date.”
There is caution in his black eyes, a wary hesitation to his movements, but he does the same, clinking his large glass against her own before taking a sip.
She notices his long eyelashes shuttering in pleasure as he swallows and she suddenly understands why he has brought her there—comfort, familiarity. He is very much a creature of habit, and clearly this is one that he has kept up, perhaps throughout his entire life.
The thought alone comforts her. She, herself, has lost connection with practically everything and everyone that she valued throughout her life . . . even the simplicity of enjoying something like this—a lager at her local. It should make her sad but it doesn’t—it makes her hopeful of the opportunity to, once again, reconnect. And the open simplicity of this gesture . . . the lack of pretence, the invitation to know him more deeply, fills her with a fuzzy warmth, enhanced by the bitter fluid that sends a pleasant shiver down her spine as she recalls the joy of a pint. This can’t be easy for him. He’s the most private man—the most private person—she has ever met. And she wants him to know that she appreciates it.
“I’d love to know what it was like . . . growing up here.” She leans forward, her fingers crawling towards him until they just touch the tips of his own.
He stares for a moment before slowly turning his hand over and lifting her fingers to rest on his. Gently rubbing his thumb across them, he begins to talk.
She listens enraptured as his story begins, gradually coalescing between occasional frothy gulps into a heart-breakingly honest retelling of his past. Each considered phrase—blunt, sad, amusing—is delivered in the rich timbre of his gentle baritone in a way that makes her wonder how she ever found it harsh or grating.
He describes his fascination with the river as a child, his meticulous exploration of its litter-strewn banks, collecting objects of interest, performing his earliest transfigurations, making ‘potions’ from jars of muddy water and weeds, and digging out secluded nooks from which to watch life pass by, to read or simply to daydream. Despite being an only child, he had never felt particularly lonely in his earliest years, and had also been blissfully unaware of his poverty . . . until school began.
The Muggle primary school that he had attended was a distance away as his mother had recognised both his intelligence and advanced magical abilities from an early age and wanted him to have a good education. Unfortunately that was also where he’d realised just how different he was to the other children. He had no interest in boisterous games and physical contests, preferring to remain in the classroom reading or helping the teacher to prepare for lessons.
Hermione listens with despair as he speaks in philosophical terms about his failure to be accepted, acknowledging that he really had no clue how to fit in. But he does speak of occasional friendships—particularly that with Lily Evans. Hermione notes how he spends a considerable amount of time looking at their hands as he recounts those events. Despite being unsure of the significance, she remains quiet, not wanting to interrupt the flow. He is a surprisingly gifted story-teller and she finds herself hanging off every word, knowing that each is delivered with great care and consideration, his face thoughtful, his hands animated whilst continuing to hold hers.
And it is only when he reaches the point in his retelling where he is about to leave home for Hogwarts that he stops and gazes at her hard.
“We haven’t ordered any food.”
She shakes her head quickly to indicate that she doesn’t care. He looks down at their empty glasses as though only just seeing them for the first time.
“I must apologise.”
“No. Don’t.” She grips his hand tighter. “I loved it . . . I wanted to know.”
He sighs, looking at her with that same uncertainty before releasing her hand.
“We’ll get it to take away.”
“Take away? Where? Hogwarts?” she asks, frowning in disappointment.
The ghost of a smirk crosses his lips. “I was thinking of my place.”
His place? The irony, of course, is that they already live together—their quarters are only a matter of metres apart. But the thought of going back to ‘his place’ suddenly makes her feel inexplicably giddy. It might be the pint that she has drunk on an empty stomach, or the fact that she is over-tired after another long day of teaching, but she suspects it is more the idea that he wants to take her there—to show her. And of course what he has to show her is even more enticing.
She smiles and leaps up from the seat. “What are we waiting for?”
- 14
- 15
- 16
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete