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I want to Snape you like an animal complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 16931 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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: Hey y'all, I’m still here . . . just a bit slow x
I also wanted to thank the gorgeous, MyWitch, for creating one of her stunning pics just for me. I don’t know how she does it - magic I assume. But here is the link - you absolutely must check it out if you are a Severus fan. *Drooooool* http://archiveofourown.org/works/13409109
Btw, I think you know where I’m going with these chapter titles so feel free to contribute :)
OO – ‘well, okay, I can kind of guess where you might be going’ – hahaha, you always know where I’m going, even when I don’t :p Yeah, my fics have been a bit low on the snort-o-meter lately. We’ll see how it goes. ‘and I was trying to walk at the time, so it made me stagger a bit’ – I love the idea of you staggering around your yard. Did you scare any deer or are they all hibernating? xx

Chapter 2 – Stop Snape-ing around
“What’s he doing here?” Neville’s voice was a strangled whisper. Hermione peeked nervously at the dark figure who had swept quietly into the room only moments before. “I thought they said he wouldn’t be teaching this class for another month at least,” he continued, eyes wide with trepidation. “It’s only been three weeks, hasn’t it?”
Hermione didn’t reply. It was clear that everyone else was equally perplexed, whispering and throwing furtive glances at the wizard fronting the room. Maybe his health had improved more quickly than expected. Or perhaps he didn’t intend to stay.
Regardless, it was the nature of his arrival that had instantly caused Hermione’s heart to lurch into her throat. It wasn’t the usual Snape entry at all. Unhurried. Silent. He’d not uttered so much as a word. And now he stood with one hand resting casually on the desk, waiting.
Each student who arrived expressed the same silent shock at seeing him, practically tripping over themselves in the rush to take their seats. He, by contrast, looked bored, jaw coolly offset as he appeared to probe his back teeth for left-over breakfast.
It was only when they were all seated, jiggling knees and fiddling nervously with quills that he produced any purposeful movement at all, raising one pale hand to wandlessly, wordlessly close the door with a reserved ‘click’. Everyone froze. That tiny sound was somehow more frightening than the usual banging and crashing they associated with the dark wizard’s arrivals and exits.
“Where are you up to?” He lifted his chin a little as he surveyed the room.
No one responded. It was the shock. Hermione had never heard him like that. It was the same inimitable baritone but it was smooth, gentle, no harsh consonants, no impossibly distended vowels, just a simple question, rolled out like a soft, velvet rug. It felt like a trap.
“Anyone?” He lifted an eyebrow. But it was little more than a casual stretch. Not the arch of instant death that they’d come to expect.
Hermione’s inner voice was screaming at her, “Not you! Don’t you remember?!”
But the silence was so excruciating that she couldn’t stop herself.
“Professor, we have finished the phase change tinctures and moved on to the aromatics.”
He nodded. “Thank you Miss Granger. In your opinion, how successful was the transition?”
Hermione’s mouth opened and closed. Since when had he requested her opinion on anything?
“The . . . uh . . . the phase changes?” she asked, her hand creeping toward her book in case he asked her anything more complicated.
“Yes. Most particularly the plasma states.” He was looking at her with interest.
“It was . . . um . . .” her gaze swept around the faces of the other students, staring at her, willing her not to make him mad. “It was . . . variable, I believe. The distillation was within a drop, or even a fraction in some cases.”
He cast his eyes to the floor then, pausing as though in deep thought.
Hermione glanced at Neville. He responded with a tiny shrug.
“I believe it would be prudent to review.” Snape continued to consider the floor. “The distillation requires an unparalleled degree of precision to master. The skills are invaluable.” His black eyes swept upward to gather them in once again. “Please turn to the recipe on page one hundred and eight . . . for Buccovenene.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. The word ‘Please?’ was a surprise. But more shocking was his choice of potion—Buccovenene—a sublingual detoxifier and anti-coagulant. Possibly the only preparation that could have saved him from Nagini’s bite . . . with the exception of a prophylactic anti-toxin.
It was a little close to home wasn’t it?
The whisper of turning pages ruffled around the room. Then everyone looked up, waiting for further direction. But there was nothing more. Snape was already seated, a book in his lap, his gaze fixed downward.
And so the lesson started—students exchanging hesitant glances before deciding to simply follow the recipe as they saw fit. Ingredients were collected, cauldrons lit, and preparation started in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Hermione found it quite remarkable how this unprecedented level of autonomy seemed to affect them, a sense of mature caution infusing their actions. She wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate ploy on Snape’s part but she found it quite exhilarating to have none of the precautions outlined, no checks, just their innate knowledge and some extremely volatile ingredients.
In fact, she was so focused upon getting it right, trailing one juice-stained finger across her text book to re-check her preparation, that she missed the fact that he’d entered their realm until his dark presence materialised beside her.
Her response was instant. Embarrassingly so. When she jerked around to face him, her eyes were immediately, automatically, drawn to his crotch. She should have looked away then, tried to focus anywhere but there. But she didn’t. She was helplessly consumed by the sight of his undisturbed placket, the tidy tailoring, wondering how he managed to conceal everything so convincingly.
She was down there far too long as it turned out. He noticed. The subtle tilt of his head when she clumsily dragged her eyes up to his, told her so. But the cool set of features and his disconcertingly impassive expression betrayed nothing more. What was he thinking? Was he angry?
He reached out. She caught her breath. Extending his arm across her front, he dipped his long fingers into the mortar on her desk, extracting a small amount of residue and rubbing it between his fingertips.
“Shale salt?” That same smooth tone. But without the usual accusation or derision.
Hermione tried to gather her thoughts but knew she must look as flustered as she felt. “Yes . . . I . . . I noted that the reptilian scales weren’t brittle enough to grind properly. I thought I could add this as a desiccating agent. As far as I can tell, the chemical elements are neutral enough not to interfere with the overall composition.”
His eyes bored into her. She felt that familiar sinking feeling and her fingers suddenly itched for her wand. She wanted to disappear the mortar contents . . . before he could tear it, and her, apart.
With an air of distraction, he turned his head away.
“Clever.” It was quiet enough to be meant for him alone. But Hermione heard it, her abdomen clenching, filling with heat . . . a mixture of shock and . . . pride. It wasn’t a natural combination and it made her feel slightly ill at ease. But then the warmth continued to trickle downward . . . stirring something . . . something even more undefinable. Or at least something that she needed to leave alone . . . for now.
He faced her again.
“Have you seen fit to alter anything . . . further?”
Those impossibly black eyes. Her face mirrored in them.
Hermione blinked, guilt sluicing through her before it rose to burn hotly in her cheeks. But she was bound to answer honestly. It was in her nature after all.
“Only some . . .” She swallowed. “Only a few drops of . . . peppermint oil.”
He leaned in a little closer, surveying the contents of her cauldron.
“For what purpose?”
It struck her then that this approach, this gentle cajoling, happened to be far more effective than the sharp edges and needling prickles of his usual inferences. His silken tone wove around her like a spell.
“I considered the potion unpalatable,” Hermione muttered weakly.
“You added . . . flavouring?” His word choice was telling enough. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he was unimpressed.
“It’s intended to be taken sublingually,” Hermione rasped, her throat suddenly as dry as the dusty pages before her. “The longer held in the mouth, the better,” she went on, compelled to explain herself, even as she felt the hole in her reasoning growing to the point that it was likely to consume not only her but the rest of the class.
He placed both hands on her desk, leaning even closer as his voice, suddenly more soft and sibilant than she’d ever known it, set to work weaving what felt like a tangle of gossamer threads over her upturned face. “Miss Granger, a man will hold this potion of yours, regardless of its palatability, for as long as he can.” Hermione felt herself drawn to his mouth, intrigued by the way it stroked and caressed each word. “Even as he feels his life force draining away, as his vision fades, and those within it.” Her eyes returned to his and his eyelids shuttered, framing his dark irises, intensifying the penetration of his gaze. “If it is his only chance at survival, he will hold it. After all, you have provided the stopper to his . . . inevitable . . . death.”
The last word had his tongue slipping slowly, sensuously, between his teeth before disappearing altogether.
Hermione’s lips parted. She needed air. But there was also an apology tugging at them. Old now. One dredged up from the past . . . for leaving him. For what happened in the Shrieking Shack. “I’m—”
“Not a wise move.” Snape’s hand shot out sideways and suddenly Theodore Nott was pinned against the far wall, his thin limbs twisting helplessly. “What are you burning, Mr Nott?” Snape continued to lean on Hermione’s desk, his eyes sliding over to confront the boy.
“It’s . . . it’s . . . only ethanol,” Nott grunted, stretching his toes downward in a fruitless attempt to touch the ground which was at least two feet away.
Snape’s fingers curled slightly and Nott grimaced. “Describe the colour of the flame that you see,” Snape instructed, his voice calm despite the intensity of the bind he’d cast.
“Blue,” Nott blurted desperately. “It’s blue.”
“And what is the usual hue of burning ethanol?”
Nott’s mouth opened, his lips twitching wordlessly as his eyes darted about in a vain attempt to conjure an answer.
“Tell him, Miss Granger.” Snape’s eyes returned to her.
Hermione paused, not wishing to appear an insufferable know-it-all. She had learned her lesson, after all.
“Please,” he encouraged softly.
For some reason his gentle tone caused her eyes to slide down to his crotch, before she realised and forced them back up to his face. What she saw there, in the shadowy recesses of his gaze, caused her breathing to turn shallow, her heart jerking and fluttering about like a trapped bird.
“Yellow,” she gasped. “Ethanol burns with a yellow accent.”
“Therefore, this particular solvent is likely to be . . . ?”
She slicked her tongue self-consciously across her bottom lip, aware that he was focusing intently upon her mouth. “Methanol,” she replied, her tongue lingering in sight before she finally retracted it.
“Indeed.” His eyes remained on her and she found that she could no longer breathe. His scrutiny seemed to lodge in her throat like a . . . like his . . . like that part of him . . . that silken but sizeable portion she’d handled only the night before. She began to feel dizzy. Tiny sparks flickered at the periphery of her vision. She arched back from him, determined not to faint into her cauldron. Then she thought she saw something, the briefest hitch of his mouth, the tiniest curl.
Was that a smile?
Abruptly, he stood, removing his hand from her desk and jerking the other away so that Nott fell to the floor in a heap. “Methanol, Mr Nott,” he restated loudly, turning his back to the class. “A chemical known to cause irreversible injury to the nervous system, blindness or even . . .” He turned to face them in a dramatic swirl of robes, “. . . death. Would you consider this appropriate for an ingested potion?”
Nott staggered to his feet. “No, sir . . . No . . . Professor,” he stammered.
“No,” Snape repeated, lifting his chin slightly. “Is . . . correct.”
Sweeping his gaze around the room, he left them with that clear warning before calmly picking up his book and returning to his seat.
There was an audible sigh as the students collectively exhaled. Hermione was relieved that she wasn’t the only one who seemed to have issues breathing in his presence. Although perhaps she was the only one who had imagined it being caused by him thrusting his considerable—
“What the fuck was that all about?” Neville hissed in her ear.
She swallowed, staring at Snape. “I was wrong.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Neville muttered. Hermione ignored the quip. “Go on, then. Wrong about what?” he pressed her.
“About Snape,” she murmured. “You were right. He has changed. But he’s still . . .” She paused as she watched the dark wizard casually lick his index finger before turning a page. “. . . He’s still dangerous.”
“Told you so!” Neville’s explosive whisper left spittle on her cheek.
She wiped it away without fanfare. “But you’re not right about everything.” She dealt him a sideways glance before returning to the bowed head of Snape. “I think he does give a fuck. He’s just found a better way of getting what he wants.”
Neville huffed, muttering as he turned away, “That's just grand . . . More fucking nightmares.”
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I want to Snape you like an animal *complete*

I want to Snape you like an animal complete