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The Book that Binds COMPLETE	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 16013 -:- 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
- 1
- 2
- 3
A/N: Anon – thanks for your kind review. It’s great to hear from people who don’t normally review. Gives me a huge boost. I’ll do my best to keep the chapters coming and always happy to be brave :)
HG4Eva – thanks for your review. I like a good twist, let’s see where this one goes.
Lovey_Reader – great to see your lovely enthusiastic self back here too. No I didn’t pick up on ‘quickening’ – it must be rolling around in my subconscious. Keep up the giddiness :)
LRB – I hope I can repay your excitement.
Talented_Mrs_Lupin – great to hear from you. ‘Stuck By Law’ was one of the first stories I read here and I loved it. Unfortunately, I haven’t kept up with the most recent chapters as I haven’t been doing a lot of reading. Looking forward to getting back into it.
OracleObscured – well here we are again. I haven’t given you much of a break have I? I’m happy to make you drool and snort. Your night time antics? I didn’t know you had access to an astronomy tower – do tell. I’m glad you enjoyed the helium-filled balloon – that made me laugh too. ‘I'm always available for resuscitation’ – Bahahah.
Jenjen – no, not forever, just not two days either.
D – here it is!
J – well, I can’t rightly say about how disturbingly hot this one might get. We will just have to see how it plays out. Did you check out youtube for ‘the song of lunch?’
Chapter 2 – The Wills that Wind
“Professor?” The urgent pleading in her voice was followed by a tremulous gasp as he plunged his long fingers into the warm, wet confines of her pussy. She was on the verge of coming but she was asking for his permission, she needed it.
“Professor?” Her face contorted as she begged for her release.
He matched her desperate thrusts with his own. And finally, with her muscular channel sucking and squeezing at his pistoning digits, he gave in to her desires.
“Now, my dear, you may come. Come for me . . . “
“Professor!”
The sharp blow to his shoulder had him springing up like a jack-in-the box. “What?”
Hermione was standing over him, her face pinched with strain. “I need to use the bathroom—urgently.”
“Oh. Right.” He was still reeling, the dream state images sluggishly receding like the slimy tail of some sordid serpent.
Clearing his throat, his mind jumped to the other sordid serpent that hadn’t the sense to recede at all, instead it shamefully, painfully, taunted him as he tried to re-position the blanket on his lap.
“I’ll have my robes back now if you don’t mind,” he snapped, holding out his free hand expectantly, trying to divert her attention.
She blinked down at the mass of dark cloth puddled around her feet. “Oh, I don’t remember putting that on.”
“You didn’t.” He beckoned his hand impatiently. “You were chattering like a chipmunk. I couldn’t get to sleep.”
She cocked her head indignantly. First her hair and now her teeth. This man was running insults on tap. Grumpily, she pushed the robe down her arm, over the book and threw the rest of the cloth into his lap.
He eyed her warily as he carefully swivelled around on the bench, trying to wrap the garment discreetly around himself using only one arm.
“Do you need some help?” she sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“I’m perfectly capable . . . “
“What I’m saying is can you hurry up? I’m about to . . . “ She grimaced, not wanting to use any words that might either trigger the flow or conjure a visual that she had no intension of sharing.
“Fine,” he huffed, standing and cinching his robe awkwardly around his middle. “There’s a student bathroom down the corridor.”
“That’s too far.” She rubbed her knuckles against her thigh, the maroon material scuffing with her urgent strokes. “I’ll use yours.”
“You most definitely will not!” His eyebrows arched menacingly.
“Why not? It’s just there.” She nodded toward his chambers.
His low voice buzzed through gritted teeth. “Those are my private quarters.”
“Your choice.” She swallowed, more fearful now of her treacherous bladder than his mounting fury. “Let me use your bathroom or I will go here on your classroom floor.”
He glared at her moments longer before a jumbled array of half-formed words blustered from under his breath. She heard ‘fuckinsuff’ which she suspected was a truncated version of ‘fucking insufferable‘ but was beyond caring, allowing herself to be dragged to his door. He barked sharp orders for her to release the wards and unlock the door, before flinging it open and barging through a small but tidy lounge.
Without time to survey the room properly, her immediate impression was one of a refined but masculine style. ‘That sort of fitted’, she conceded. It was a reflection of his general appearance and demeanour. But when they took the similar breakneck speed tour of his bedroom—that was an entirely different matter.
There was a richness to it, a sensorial beauty. The covers and furnishings reminded her of a mossy sun-dappled grove that she and Ginny had once happened upon in the heart of the Forbidden Forest. Plush cushions of velvety greens and golds, impossibly fine rugs—buoyant underfoot, dew drop chandeliers and cut glass lamps splashing jewels of light around the walls. She was so entranced that she almost forgot her bladder until they rocketed through a final door into the bathroom.
He turned and glared at her, breathing heavily.
“Professor, if you will give me a moment,” she addressed him with as much dignity as she could muster, considering she would be touching him as she sat doing her business.
She waited for him to turn away and, even though she was bursting at the seams, took the precaution of casting a silencing spell.
How dare she! he fumed. He’d allowed only a handful of people into his private chambers in the nearly two decades he’d been at Hogwarts. And she demands entry for what? So she can soil his bathroom?
It was a few moments before he noticed her reflection, distorted in the curve of the spout like some animated surrealist painting but still, irrefutably her, unbuttoning . . . her . . . skirt . . . His breath hitched. Should he close his eyes? He should shouldn’t he? No. He couldn’t. He had to see. Which way would it go? Up or down? The skirt. That skirt that held her so intimately. Like flower petals, embracing even silkier softness.
He grimaced as his ‘fair weather friend’ poked its head up for another look. Would she pull it up? Revealing her knees, thighs and . . . he swallowed with an audible click. No, it was slithering down. Both hands, fingers spread, trailing the fabric over smooth thighs, shuddering on its rippling descent. Then she was sinking, down, down, her head and shoulders now the only reflection, the fingers of her free hand running through her caramel hair.
And he could feel her, that finger against his, moving. Why was it moving? What reason did it have to move? To stroke against his, to caress. Gods, it was like water torture. Drip by drip. Slip by slip.
He closed his eyes then, willing his eager cock to cooperate. To behave. He understood its excitement. It had been an inordinately long time since they’d witnessed female flesh of any sort— except the particularly unpleasant occasion when Madam Hooch had insisted he help remove a splinter from her bottom. But it wasn’t the flesh that was the issue here. And they both knew it—he and his cock. It was the particularly particular person whom the flesh belonged to.
Why had she come back? He’d only just managed to rein in his thoughts of her after years of obsession. She’d been his student and he’d respected their relationship as such, never once straying from propriety despite the surges of desire that had almost driven him insane in her final year. And now she turns up, the ‘new Professor’, all bubbly and shiny and supple and curvy and drizzled with honey. He was nearly twice her age. She despised him. And with good reason. He had been a complete prick to her. It was the only way he could cope. And it was the only way he could cope now.
“Have you quite finished?” he drawled. “Or are we to continue with this Niagara Falls impression for the rest of the morning?”
She wished she’d cast a silencing spell on him. She’d get up when she was good and ready. In fact, she might even draw it out a bit longer than necessary. Then a thought struck her. He was probably desperate to go himself, but too proud to say.
Sighing, she cast a quick scourgify on herself, yanked up her knickers and skirt and flushed. Dropping the silencing spell she yanked on the book.
“Your turn.”
Spinning to face her—why did all his movements resemble a snake striking?—he narrowed his eyes but didn’t contradict her assumption.
Stalking over to the bowl, he threw her an accusing look as if she had suggested something improper.
“Do you need help?” she asked, suddenly annoyed by his silent insinuation.
“And why would I need help?” His free hand twitched as it hovered by his crotch, he was clearly desperate for relief.
“Oh I don’t know, you have a penchant for buttons, I thought perhaps you might have carried the theme through to your underwear.”
“Of course you did.” His words and tone were as dry as parchment.
She’d made her point. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of watching.” She quickly cast a silencing spell on him and turned away before he could respond.
Did he really think she was that pathetically desperate? Sure, he’d caught her trying to procure smut by disabling a security system more complicated than the one protecting the Crown Jewels. Maybe she just liked a challenge? It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen her fair share of male genitalia. She’d had a pretty good time at Teacher’s College as it had turned out. There seemed to be no shortage of wizards wanting to display and demonstrate their wares, but it had been quite a few months since she had seen or done anything. And hence the book. And hence this entire fucking fiasco.
He must be finished by now.
She turned her head slightly. Was he still going?
She turned further. Merlin’s Buggery Balls!
She had just solved a number of mysteries. One happened to be the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster. No wonder it couldn’t be found, it had been hidden in Snape’s woollen trousers all this time.
She gaped. And it didn’t appear to be entirely flaccid. Maybe that’s why he was taking so . . .
Her arm jerked violently. He was glaring at her, shouting something, trying to cover himself up. ‘Not a chance!’ she thought as she looked away, gasping with a mixture of excitement and fear.
She felt a series of smaller tugs on her arm like a fish on the end of a line. Only, this particular fish wasn’t one she was keen to reel in. Suddenly, she was pulled, bodily, slamming into his hard chest. He had a fistful of her blouse in one hand and the book hand behind his back so that her arm was twisted at an awkward angle. He was breathing heavily.
She had to crane her neck to look up at his blood-red face. “I’m sorry.”
It was the only thing she could think to say. He was trembling against her, clearly distressed. She wasn’t sure why he was so upset. But it was Snape, he probably had hang-ups about all sorts of things.
“I really am sorry.” She genuinely meant it. “I thought you’d finished. You were taking so long that I . . . “
He looked at her intently as his lips moved, tongue thudding silently behind them. She dropped the silencing charm.
“Don’t . . . speak . . . to me.”
***
If Hermione had thought it was awkward being physically bound to her past Potions Professor by a sex book, it was only to get worse. He seemed determined to pretend that she wasn’t there at all, dragging her around like a naughty child on one of those harnesses she sometimes saw in the supermarket.
He moved expeditiously despite his encumbrance—although, admittedly, she had quickly given up resisting and was now simply stumbling about, trying to avoid collisions with the furniture. By the time he finally allowed them to sit, occupying opposite ends of an expensively brocaded couch near the fire, he had managed to floo Headmistress McGonagall to tell her that their lessons would need to be cancelled for the day, accumulated a teetering pile of books from his private collection which now bowed at them from the small table, ordered the house elf to bring them breakfast (which sat steaming on a tray) and had knitted his brow into such an expression of consternation that Hermione wondered if, despite the clarity of his actions, he might have actually lost the plot.
Snatching up a book from the pile, he flipped over the front cover and placed it on the arm of the couch, his dark eyes scanning efficiently down the page.
Hermione watched as the invisible waves of fury continued to radiate from him, tapping her fingers on her wand and wondering what to do. He really was being a bit OTT—over the top, but she suspected informing him of such was not going to help her cause. She decided to do what she always did in times like this. Drink tea.
Using her wand, she poured them both cups. She actually knew how he took his. It was something she tended to pay attention to, a courtesy that made people feel special. She didn’t know how well it would go down with Professor I’m-not-special-enough-even-though-I-have-an-enormous-cock. Or maybe he thought he was too special. She really couldn’t tell.
She decided to make it the way he liked it—strong with sugar and cream. Which was strange because he took his coffee black, no sugar; and his kippers medium; and his toast well done. Fuck, why did she know so much about him? She’d only been there just over a week. She even knew that he turned his toast as he buttered it.
She sighed inwardly, wondering as much about herself as about him. He was a total bastard to her. He always had been. And he was being one now. But then there were the nagging doubts that wheedled away at her like weevils in wheat. There were things that didn’t fit. Stolen glances, intakes of breath, lightening of frowns. She was sure she wasn’t imagining it—not all of it.
Nonplussed, she cast leviosa and set the cup down on the table before him. The familiar rattle of crockery announcing tea seemed to jolt him from his book focus. His eyes rested upon the cup for an inordinately long period.
“Thankyou.” The word wasn’t clipped. It was fleshy and full. He meant it.
Hermione let out the breath she had been holding. Perhaps this was the olive branch. She still didn’t think she had done anything particularly wrong but they had a serious problem to deal with and were going to have to work it out together. Being able to speak was probably going to be an important requirement.
She followed the tea with honey-drizzled porridge, then marmalade on toast. By the time they had finished, warm and full, it felt like the tension had dissipated considerably.
He drew in a deep breath and brushed toast crumbs from the front of his coat. “These are all the books I have on hexes and curses. Between us, we need to read them and work out a solution.”
It was the most reasonable she had ever heard him—when talking to her at least.
Hermione leaned forward and took the next book from the top of the stack. In companionable silence they read, flicking pages, checking indexes and references, rubbing tired eyes and Hermione occasionally wrote notes on the parchment she had borrowed from his desk in the corner. Lunch came and went, as did dinner.
She was halfway through her fourth book when she noticed that he was asleep, jaw propped on his fist. She closed the book, taking the opportunity to look at him, properly, without the scowl. He really wasn’t that scary when his face was softened by the gentle hand of sleep. His skin, although pale, was surprisingly fine, like polished alabaster and his lips, slightly parted, she had to admit, looked particularly delicious. Delicious? Another word she shouldn’t have used. But now she couldn’t unthink it.
His mouth, almost permanently etched in a grim line, when parted, revealed two plump, gently undulating pads—sensual peaks and valleys that his words, like tumbled gems rolled around and over. That voice. Her fingers curled into the thick brocade. It turned every word roasted and golden. She thought about licking each muttered morsel, right out from between those soft sensual pads. Shit! Her hand had risen inadvertently to her mouth and she was now biting too hard on the webbing between her thumb and index finger.
Stretching her hand to ease the pain, she realised that there was only one thing to do. Only one thing she wanted to do. Consult Mr Boats. Placing the unfinished book on the table, she gently eased both of their hands around until the book between their palms was facing her. Eyeing him warily for any signs of waking, she opened the cover.
Foreword
The art of sex—of love-making—in all its forms, can be exquisitely enhanced by the yield of a skilful and passionate brewer. The ten potions of passion described in this book have been chosen for both their potency and capacity to induce and augment sensual and sexual pleasure. Each brewing process is accompanied by a detailed description of how the potion may be applied for maximum effect. (I. Boats)
Hermione’s flush deepened. Was this a good idea? She was already wet and aching from her previous unbridled imaginings. And what sort of relief could she expect to achieve. He wasn’t going to stay asleep through . . . well through anything particularly vigorous. And what would happen if he caught her in the act. Red handed. Well not red handed it wasn’t that time of the month . . . Oh shit she hated her mind sometimes!
She turned to the first chapter.
Potions of Passion:
1. Seduction.
Feel the surrender. The nuzzle of the nozzle. Its slips and nips. Its sultry tips. A dribble. A nervous tipple. The tincture shudders and sighs, its lazy lengthening, in hazy eyes.
Hermione’s mouth fell open. Oh fuck! He was a wordsmith too. It was her absolute weakness. This definitely wasn’t the right time to . . .
“So we’ve moved on from scholarly hypotheses to pornographic tripe have we?”
She jumped, glancing up to see his obsidian orbs drilling into her.
“As a matter of fact,” she replied primly, attempting to assuage her debaucherous yearning. “This book is far from pornographic. It is rather beautifully poetic.”
He snorted.
So she gave it to him. In her most darkly seductive voice.
“Feel the surrender. The nuzzle of the nozzle. Its slips and nips. Its sultry tips. A dribble. A nervous tipple. The tincture shudders and sighs, its lazy lengthening, in hazy eyes.”
He looked at her a moment before snorting again. “Sounds like a moon-eyed drip.”
“He’s a wordsmith,” she replied indignantly.
“He’s a wanksmith.”
“Mr Boats is not a wanksmith.”
“Mr Boats?” He smirked. “More like Mr Boasts. I’ve never heard anyone happier with their own abstrusely syncopated vocabulary.”
He turned away from her and continued reading his book.
“Look who’s talking,” Hermione muttered under her breath, wishing she hadn’t read it to him.
He was clearly jealous. Why wouldn’t he be? Here was a man who could make women gush into their gussets with a few simple lines of prose. She couldn’t deny that the man opposite her had a way with the spoken word. A way of pissing her off with the spoken word—with his typically Snape-ish snidery. But then she made the mistake of imagining him reading her those lines. His mouth around ‘tipple’ did her nipples and ‘lazy lengthening’ reamed her labia. She was at risk of making an embarrassing stain on his expensive couch. She needed to move.
“I assume we’re sleeping here?” she said briskly, leaping up. “I’ll transfigure the other chair into a bed. It’ll be warmer and hopefully more comfortable.”
He nodded, not looking up from his book.
As she busied herself with preparing their sleeping quarters, he allowed himself a grimace. Fuck, he wished she hadn’t read those lines to him. And used that voice. His cock had had more of a workout in the past twenty-four hours than it had had in years. And there was no opportunity for relief or even to release it from the painful confines of his trousers. The sooner they sorted out this book bind the better. He had so little control over his emotions and bodily functions it was humiliating. He needed to get away.
Hermione lay in the darkness, her hand reaching out to his. It was ridiculous, really. They looked like two yearning lovers and yet each was clearly desperate to get as far away from the other as possible. The chairs weren’t comfortable. She wished she’d suggested his bed. Or hers. The less sleep she had, the more difficult it was going to be to cope with his erratic behaviour. At least in the bed she’d be warm. He might even touch her. Would she let him? It depended what he touched her with. What if it was with that impressive cock? And if he was looking to demonstrate in no uncertain terms why he was the House Master of ‘Slither . . . In’?
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The Book that Binds *COMPLETE*

The Book that Binds COMPLETE