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Unintentional Inveiglement	By : onecelestialbeing Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 129854 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 29
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and it's characters and making no money from this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Hello! First off, thank you for your lovely words and well wishes! Surgery went well, I was still being silly in the hospital and even cajoled a nurse into bringing me chocolate ;) Now I have a brace and start therapy next week, so I can type as little, but I might have to do more frequent updates with less chapters so I don't leave you lovely people hanging.

And I felt like the little kid that had to sit out at recess while everyone played, since everyone was updating their stories and I couldn't. So damn it, this one took all week to type but here it is.

Reviews make my wrist feel better :) *puppy dog eyes* and thank you for the ones you left, as always! You all are wonderful.

In the wee hours of the morning, things continued on as normal, relatively speaking, at least. Peeves had been drawing on the walls, only to get caught and sent away by the Bloody Baron. The owlery was empty, as most of its nocturnal inhabitants were still out hunting beneath the glow of bright moonlight. Crookshanks was curled up a few inches away from the stove in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, fast asleep with one paw over his face.

Even though nothing out of the ordinary was going on, Hogwarts' walls could have been crumbling at that very moment and Hermione and Snape still would have been disinclined to let go of one another and get out of bed.

Hermione had been the initiator for their second round. It hadn't taken much for her to convey her wishes; she was still naked and had been sleeping with her back to Snape's chest. His flaccid cock had been nestled perfectly in the cleft of her behind, and all it had taken was a bit of wriggling before he was fully erect and poking her in the lower back.

Snape merely positioned Hermione's leg over his hip and slowly made his way into her body. Possessively cupping one breast while keeping up with an easy rhythm, he easily brought the witch to a quiet release. The only sound betraying their activity had been their laboured breathing and the slight rustling of bed sheets as the two moved beneath them.

The third coupling had been initiated by Snape. What started off as slow only slightly increased in tempo, yet quickly became intense. Snape was buried deeply as humanly possible inside Hermione, while holding onto her as if she might vanish right before his eyes.

The only thing Hermione could offer was that she had been twisted like a pretzel into a variety of positions. They finished off with her lying on top of Snape, her back to his chest with her legs flanking his. His arms encircled her waist, and his middle finger methodically stroked her clit while he leisurely thrust up into her.

Hermione had tilted her head all the way back, her face so close to Snape's that her lips brushed against his cheek each time he moved. If her hair was smothering him, he never said anything. He had been too taken by the sound of her soft moans and the feel of her soft, sweat-dampened body draped over his that even the unruly curls covering his nose and right eye hadn't been a distraction.

Between being completely enveloped in Severus' arms while he feverishly slid up into her body, along with his long fingers continuously sliding through her wet flesh to pinch and pluck at the small sensitive bud while his other hand firmly cupped her breast, Hermione found herself in a fog. Right when she felt that familiar clenching in the pit of her stomach, Severus' teeth nipped at the side of her neck, and her quiet moans switched into a loud keening. Her walls fluttered around and clamped down around Severus, whose movements grew exaggerated as he soon spilled inside her, all the while grinding his hips into hers and breathing heavily into her ear.

She had been completely worn out by the time they were done, although she hadn't wanted to go back to sleep. To do so meant that morning would soon come, which inevitably meant that the Christmas holiday was over, thus forcing Hermione to return to the dormitory.

Hermione remained draped like a sleepy kitten on top of Severus, barely making a sound as he ran his knuckles along the side of her rib cage. One minute she had been fighting to keep her eyes open, completely limp and sprawled atop the wizard. But before Hermione could protest, she had been tipped over onto her side and her head met with one of the pillows. Vaguely aware that she was mumbling something about not wanting to close her eyes, Snape threatened that she had better go to sleep else he would force a sleeping draught down her throat.

That threat, however, had been empty. Snape had also tired himself out and the last thing he felt like doing was walking to his front room to root through a chest of readymade potions that he always kept on hand. He had been somewhat reluctant to move Hermione in the first place; she wasn't that heavy to keep lying on top of him, and her head fitted perfectly beside his with the position they had lain in.

Hermione continued with her incoherent rambling about not being able to see the professor any longer since the Christmas break was over, fussing into the pillow about what did he expect her to do, that perhaps she should pretend that nothing ever happened between them.

Snape had grown irritated with Hermione's whining, which had been punctuated with a few yawns, when he finally snapped at her to be quiet. Lowering his head to brush his lips against hers, he calmly explained in a hushed tone that while their meetings were sure to be infrequent, perhaps they would find a way to come together again.

That had been enough to appease Hermione, for she let out a drowsy 'thank you' before dropping off into a light snore.

When daylight broke, rather, Hermione assumed it was daylight as she was unable to see anything being ensconced in Snape's dungeon-level rooms. As far as she was concerned, it was dark o'clock, and the hour was well suited only for remaining burrowed beneath the duvet with a pillow over her head.

But no, she had to go back to Gryffindor Tower and pretend that her mind wasn't elsewhere while waiting for her friends to return to the school. So with one last kiss from a bare-chested and tousled-haired Severus, Hermione dressed and went through her rigmarole of skulking through the castle and back to the dormitories.

Breakfast wouldn't be served for another few hours, although food was the last thing on her mind at the moment. She wasn't like Ron; the sky could be falling, the entire world going up in a lusty orange blaze, people screaming, hell and bedlam breaking loose, fire and brimstone taking place, and the boy would be cursing the fact that the end of the world arrived before lunchtime.

After returning to the dormitory, Hermione decided that she might as well sleep for another few hours. She changed into pyjamas and pulled back the curtains shut around her bed. Crookshanks was in the middle of her duvet, curled into a furry ginger ball with his bushy tail neatly tucked around his body. With all the displeasure only a feline could muster, he opened one yellow eye and turned up his squashed face at Hermione when she shifted him to the foot of her bed.

If cats could laugh, Crookshanks surely would have. His human had just slid beneath the blankets, arranging a pillow beneath her head when she let out a tired-sounding, "What on earth...?" before withdrawing a handful of Butterbeer corks.

"Thank you, Crooks," said Hermione groggily, leaning over to put the corks on her bedside table. Crookshanks had closed his eye and resumed his sleep, briskly waving his tail about as if gesturing for Hermione to do the same.

Hermione was curled up on her side, lightly snoring with her face buried into her pillow. At first she balked at the idea of sleeping alone, especially after considering that she hadn't been doing so ever since the start of the holiday. However, a night full of ardent sex with the professor left her knackered, and she fell asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.

Now a timid voice was calling her name and she wondered if she was dreaming. Could Crookshanks talk? No, and perhaps it was a good thing, as he would most likely boss her around from sun up to sun down.

Feed me, human.

Tell the orange idiot to do his own homework. And while he's at it to get the hell of my tail.

Will you put down the book and get me some milk? I'm parched.

I told you not to trust that dolt, but you know everything.

Even so, if her cat could talk, it wouldn't be in a soft, feminine voice.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?" she mumbled, turning over and opening her eyes to find a member of her House standing at the side of her bed and holding curtains back with one finger. Bonnie was a fourth-year that had also stayed behind for the holiday. She was quiet and mostly kept to herself, but had been pleasant enough each time they passed in the dormitory. Now Bonnie was fully dressed and looked as if she felt badly for disturbing her.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but McGonagall is down in the common room and she's asking for you. She said it's urgent."

"Alright, thanks, Bonnie," Hermione replied in a groggy voice.

Hermione heaved a sigh and turned over in bed, willing herself to get up. Her mind was still muddled from being woken up, but it was a split second before she literally jerked upright as all sorts of scenarios began running through her mind. What did McGonagall want with her at— she paused to rub her eyes and pluck her wristwatch from the nightstand— nine-thirty on a Sunday morning?

Hermione wasn't particularly religious, but at that moment she would have lit a hundred candles and said two hundred novenas if it meant that McGonagall hadn't come calling on her to ask why shehad been traipsing through the castle at hours that could only be construed as insane.

Her heart was in her stomach as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and distractedly shoved her feet into slippers, completely missing the right shoe at first and causing her toes to meet with the cold floor. A bathrobe was hastily thrown over her pyjamas and Hermione rushed down the steps to the common room that was empty, save for an agitated Head of House.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall nodded, peering down at Hermione through her spectacles.

"Good morning, Professor," Hermione greeted cautiously, the knot in her stomach drawing tighter as she pondered the reason for McGonagall's aberrant visit. "Is everything alright?"

"I am aware of the time, but after you've made yourself presentable, there is something we need to discuss," the professor began without preamble. "I'll be waiting for you in my office."

"Alright, Professor," Hermione said, feebly nodding her head and watching as McGonagall turned and awkwardly climbed back through the portrait hole. Walking numbly back up to the girls' dormitory, Hermione immediately jumped to the worse possible reasons as to why she was being summoned to the professor's office.

She knows, Hermione panicked inwardly. That's the only thing I can think of. But how?

Hermione didn't think that McGonagall knew about the Marauder's Map. Also, she had been extra careful when it came to sneaking in and out of the dormitories. There were the portraits and ghosts, but she had also made sure to avoid them.

Either way, while sleeping with Severus was admittedly amazing, she didn't think it worth risking him being sacked for cavorting with a student, or worse, sent to Azkaban.

If she had to make a comparison, then Hermione would say that Snape was somewhat like a poppy flower; interesting to look at, but once you peel back some of the outer layers, its exposed innards seemed innocuous but actually were enticing. Snape did look menacing; even if he were to wear light colours and smile—a real smile, not that smug upturning of his lips that was usually reserved for someone trodding on his nerves—people would most likely steer clear of him.

But to Hermione, after folding back some of Snape's proverbial petals (an idea which sounded preposterous to her, because there was nothing about the wizard that remotely screamed delicate or 'flower-like'), she found that she was, for all intents and purposes, addicted to the man like one became addicted to sticky-sweet opium. No doubt she was playing with fire, but if she needed to stop, then she would.

Hermione continued worrying herself into a right state. Opting to get her meeting with McGonagall over with, she rushed to shower and dress. Breakfast wasn't an option at that point because of the ball of tension still in her stomach and now throat. Her anxiety only increased when she stepped out of the shower, and right before covering herself with a towel, noticed the plethora of love bites marking her skin.

Immediately, Hermione thought of that last time in Snape's bed, and the way his wiry arms held in her place while his sharp knees dug into her inner thigh as he rolled his hips and nudged his way into her body. While she had been a bit tender from the first two times, her body felt hyper-sensitive and Hermione had easily become drunk on passion. Snape used slow, perfectly controlled movements to bury himself to the hilt, and Hermione came more times than she cared to count. She didn't even remember when he placed half of his markings on her skin, as she had been otherwise engaged and hadn't noticed much else at that moment.

At least he left them where only I can see, Hermione mused, looking at the small blotchy patch over her right nipple, as well as another on her left inner thigh. Lowering her eyes, on her hips she saw what looked like faint bruises that bore the shape of Severus' hands, and she remembered the way he gripped onto them as he let out a deep groan before erupting inside her.

Hermione stifled a groan, even though she was alone in the lavatory, and shivered at the vivid memory of Severus being inside of her.

Only a few hours away from him, and already I'm a mess. Damn, do I really need to stop seeing him?

Yes, Granger, unless you want Severus to get into trouble.

Oh, shut up. You don't even know if that's why McGonagall wants to talk to you. For all you know, she could have transformed into her Animagus form, and Crookshanks came across her and tried to get a little friendly, if you know what I mean.

Right. Well, as disturbing as that thought is, I suppose you have a point.

Absentmindedly tracing around the love bite on her breast, Hermione finally pulled the towel around her and dabbed the excess moisture away from her skin. She remained on edge as she got dressed, and had to convince herself to leave the lavatory and walk in the direction of McGonagall's office.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger," a solemn-faced McGonagall began, gesturing to a chair on the other side of her desk. "Normally Professor Dumbledore would be the one to speak with you about this, but seeing as the headmaster is not here, I've been asked to relay the message."

Hermione had been a bundle of nerves ever since stepping over the threshold of McGonagall's office, but the look on the elderly witch's face along with the heaviness in her voice made her worry for other reasons.

She soon found out why the professor looked so upset; over the course of the previous night, Death Eaters, namely Bellatrix Lestrange, and who appeared to be Fenrir Greyback, had gone to the Burrow and tried to burn it down. Luckily, they had been unsuccessful and neither Harry nor any of the Weasleys had been seriously hurt.

McGonagall was still talking, but Hermione found herself becoming distracted and she had to force herself to focus on the words coming out of the professor's mouth.

"Miss Granger, are you all right?"

"Yes...no... Sorry, Professor," she said in small voice.

Hermione was trying to downplay her anxiety, but she felt as if she had been punched in the stomach when McGonagall told her about the attack on her friends. Had she also gone to the Burrow, there was no telling what might have happened. True, McGonagall said that everyone was safe, and that Harry, Ron, and Ginny would be returning to Hogwarts via Floo within the hour. Yet it wasn't enough to tamper down the icy ball of fear that had taken up residence next to the ball of tension in her chest.

"Professor Dumbledore wanted you to be aware of the situation for obvious reasons," McGonagall continued, coming from around her desk to stand in front of Hermione.

"I understand," Hermione replied, "and I know to not say anything. But you say everyone is okay, right?"

"Yes, Miss Granger. Fortunately, things didn't get too out of hand. That is all; I won't keep you any longer. You may go," the professor told her with an air of finality, awkwardly patting her student on the arm before retreating to the other side of her desk.

Hermione stood up and ambled out of McGonagall's office. All that morning she had been sure that McGonagall was going to slap her with accusations of all sorts that stemmed from sneaking around with a certain dour Potions master. She had been relieved to find that her secret hadn't been found out, yet another worry neatly slid into place at the mere mention of Death Eaters.

Hermione got the idea that everyone believed she was imperturbable when year after year she and her friends had to face one thing after another. Yes, she may have given off that impression by behaving as if she knew everything, but truth be told, some part of her was always scared. She supposed that was normal; no fear at all tended to make a person foolhardy and they often rushed into things without thinking them through.

But it was getting harder and harder to keep it all together. Between studying for her NEWTs and wondering what the next day held in terms of a catastrophe involving Dark wizards or something equivalent, Hermione was reaching the end of an already short tether.

Even though she had been safely ensconced in Hogwarts when the attack on the Burrow occurred, it didn't stop her from going sick with worry over her friends. She almost felt guilty, especially when taking into consideration the way she spent her holiday. But it wasn't as if she knew there was going to be an attack. Hermione wondered if her mum had been onto something when she adamantly insisted that her daughter remain behind at school. While Hermione felt guilty, she was also relieved that she had listened to her.

Mother knows best, Hermione wryly thought to herself.

Hermione returned to the dormitory and found that the common room was occupied. She wasn't in the mood to be around anyone, so she scooped up Crookshanks and carried him to one of the empty corridors where she sometimes visited whenever she wanted to be alone.

The little niche wasn't that popular as the entire area was out in the open, which deterred couples skulking about looking for a place to snog. However, it was out of the view enough that it was suitable for Hermione to sit down at, either with a book, her cat, or her thoughts to keep her company.

Crookshanks immediately jumped out of Hermione's arms once she sat down, and took to stalking around the area. Using her wand to conjure a small pile of feathers, Hermione waved one in his direction and laughed when he batted at it with one paw.

Once her familiar was thoroughly engaged, Hermione allowed her thoughts to turn back to her conversation with McGonagall. Harry and the Weasleys had Apparated to Grimmauld Place, and most likely had spent their morning talking to Aurors. McGonagall hadn't given all the hairy details about the attack, and Hermione wished that she was with her best friends to offer support. She didn't know how helpful she would be, as she still hadn't gotten over everything that happened to the previous school year, nor nearly being kidnapped in Flourish and Blotts over the summer. Trying to run out of a burning house while a sadistic witch and wizard shot hexes in every direction would definitely fuel the mental pressure she had been trying to escape.

Crookshanks seemed to pick up on Hermione's forlorn mood, because he picked up a feather between his tiny teeth while leaving the rest in a pile in the middle of the floor, and carried it over, dropping it at her feet. Hermione had no idea what Crookshanks meant for her to do with the feather, but she laughed anyhow and bent down to stroke his fur.

Seeing his mistress' pinched face breaking into a smile, the feline deemed his work done and trotted back over to his feathers.

"Severus, how was your break?"

Snape was perched beside Dumbledore, the tip of his ebony wand moving slowly over his blackened hand as he tried to determine how far the curse had spread throughout it. The headmaster's question gave him pause and he looked up briefly, trying to figure out if Dumbledore was being facetious.

The headmaster knew damn well that when Snape wasn't bending over and catering to the whims of either him or his other master, that he spent his time alone. Of course, for the first time he'd had someone to warm his bed for an entire week, but Dumbledore was in no need of that information.

"The same as always. Quiet, just the way I prefer."

Snape suspected that Dumbledore knew about him going to meet with the Dark Lord, but he only ever asked about those meetings whenever he was in need of information.

"There was an attack on the Weasleys' home this morning," Dumbledore continued with what Snape construed to be an air of accusation. "Were you aware it was going to happen?"

Snape grit his teeth and continued moving his wand over Dumbledore's hand. "No, I was not, Headmaster," he answered honestly. It isn't as if Death Eaters give an itinerary of their misdoings for the day, he added inwardly.

"You are supposed to be kept abreast of everything going on," Dumbledore told him, as if Snape was personally responsible for the attack.

"Is the Dark Lord aware of that point? Perhaps he should be informed," Snape replied dryly.

He was trying to remain respectful, but really he wanted to suggest that since he was already kneeling before Dumbledore, perhaps he could also kick him in his teeth. Snape thought it wonderfully nervy of the older wizard to basically suggest that his espionage skills were subpar, and he was almost tempted to ask if Dumbledore could trouble himself to compile a list of ways in which Snape could improve his methods. It was bad enough that Snape had been coerced and made to feel guilty until he agreed to a task in which case only his own death would help him to forget, but to be blamed for something that he had no control over was absurd.

"I'm not casting blame upon you, Severus," Dumbledore said as if he was able to read his thoughts. "I'm merely impressing upon you the importance of being kept informed of situations that are potentially hazardous to Harry and everyone surrounding him."

Snape made a small noise of disgust but didn't say anything; at that point he was not interested in the headmaster's shoddy apology. It wasn't even an apology; he merely rephrased his words while still pointing a gnarled finger. It seemed that the headmaster was never pleased no matter what he did, and would never be pleased.

While Dumbledore kept a world of secrets to himself, Snape had a vague idea that even young Potter was beneath the same type of pressure. Pawns on Dumbledore's chessboard, was how Snape often thought of himself and anyone else that the wizard audaciously ordered about. Snape was used to no one having regard for his personal welfare. Well, there was one person that barely came up to his shoulder that seemed to give a damn as of late, but that was it. Yet Potter was only sixteen, and Dumbledore thought nothing of sending the reckless boy to do his bidding.

Potter had to do Dumbledore's bidding, and Snape had to be his au pair and make sure that the idiot boy (and his sidekicks, depending on the situation) didn't kill himself in the process. Potter could return to Hogwarts with a scratch over his eye, and the entire hospital wing would be turned upside down to lay healing wand upon him. Snape could return to Hogwarts with his own blood blooming deep red patterns into his shirt and his brains leaking through his nostrils, and no one would blink an eye.

Sometimes moving about undetected and keeping to the shadows could be a blessing as well as a curse.

Seeing that it was pointless to continue harping on his own sad life, Snape ended the spell on Dumbledore's blackened and withered hand and stuck his wand back into a hidden pocket of his robes.

Snape had been in his rooms that afternoon when Dumbledore sent a Floo call to his front room, requesting his presence in the tower office. He had been in the middle of reading, attempting to take in the last bit of peace and quiet before the little bastards—students— returned to the school. In between pages, his mind drifted to thoughts of the young witch that had graced his bed all that week.

He had worn her out the third time they'd had sex. Since there was no telling when she would be able to visit his rooms next, he wanted to leave a lasting impression. Six was the nice round number of orgasms he'd given her that last go around, and also coincided with the amount of love bites he had left on her body. There was one on her right breast, one on her inner left thigh, and one on her ankle. The other three markings were in places she would be able to see only if she stood in between two full-length mirrors. His lips had sucked a rosy patch into the soft skin of her shoulder blade while he took her from behind; there was another mark on the back of her right thigh which had been placed while his callused fingertips sought out and lay siege to the small patch of sensitive, spongy tissues inside her body. Had he not been lying along the length of Hermione's trembling legs at the time, she surely would have kicked him in the stomach, or worse, with the way her limbs had kicked and flailed.

The last mark was at the nape of her neck, in a place that would have been visible to all, only he anticipated Hermione's bushy hair keeping it concealed. Even if she were to wear it in a plait, he left it so that it would still be unnoticeable. He knew it was there and could look at it if it took his fancy, and that was good enough.

Snape also remembered Hermione saying that she wanted him. It was likely that she only meant that she wanted him to put her out of her misery by finishing what he started, but the witch had both eyes open at the time and had been looking up right at him. For a split second, Snape was sure that he had seen more than just sexual hunger in those brown orbs, but then Hermione had closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, clinging onto him and clamoring with the need for release.

Apart from the sex, sharing a bath with Hermione had been strange yet enjoyable. Her little hands digging into his scarred flesh had been relaxing, although his libido had gotten the best of him, which ended with Hermione kneeling in the water and taking him into her mouth. However, that morning Snape had been reflecting upon the impromptu soapy massage she had given him, and the thought was enough to make him drowsy.

Soon as his eyes crashed shut, the sound of his Floo being activated had permeated the silence of his front room. It seemed that Dumbledore was going to inconvenience him, most likely for all of eternity. The elderly wizard was so tenacious in having his way at any given moment that Snape was sure he possessed the ability to ruin a wet dream.

Could Snape not even become lost in his thoughts in his private study without being interrupted?

The answer apparently had been no, which was how Snape found himself in the headmaster's office, being what he could only consider chastised. Again, Snape had no idea that Bellatrix had planned on taking it upon herself to attack the Weasley family. But if Dumbledore chose to not believe him, then hell if he was going to break his neck in the midst of trying to convince the wizard otherwise.

Life was short and stressful, and Snape had finally arrived to a point where he didn't give a damn about what others thought of him. He could have one Galleon and the wizarding world's trite yet no doubt blackened opinion of him, and if he took both to Rosmerta's pub he would only be able to purchase a couple of pints.

Fawkes then made a sudden appearance in the office, and landed right on top of Dumbledore's good arm. The wizard began speaking to his familiar in a hushed tone, which Snape took that to mean the end of their conversation.

tbc...a little drama? hmm
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Unintentional Inveiglement