Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Cantata for Three Voices in G Major	By : wire-fish Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 2798 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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4 Sept 98, Potions Classroom
Hermione lagged behind when the Potions class assembled and hurried to her bench beside Ginny just as the last few students trickled in. They sat close to the front of the room, to the right. The lectern was against the wall and Hermione had a clear view of Snape’s desk. Again she saw him sprawled against the desk; she shoved the image from her mind and concentrated on assembling her workstation.
Snape billowed in from the door, slammed it shut, and stalked up to the front of the room. He paused at the store closet to push the door firmly shut and glanced in Hermione’s direction when he did. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to remain calm, but feeling a tremble start in her belly.
Snape stood at the front of the class, surveying them for a moment. The class sat quietly, waiting.
“I want to do something different today,” he said, his voice sonorous and oddly light. Whimsical. Hermione felt a pricking at the back of her neck and her thundering pulse urged caution.
“You’ll all need to roll up your sleeves. It’s not dangerous, but it will be messy, and I’m sure none of you want to get your clothing sullied. You may remove your school robes if you desire.”
The class collectively murmured. Most of them shook off their robes. Hermione sat still, staring at him as he watched them. Eventually he focused on her and stalked to her table.
“Miss Granger,” he said, his voice soft. “Do you plan to join this exercise?”
“Yes, Professor,” she replied. She tossed her hair off her shoulders. “I’m sure I can keep my sleeves clean.”
“I see.” He smirked at her. “Don’t complain when you cannot.”
She nodded dismissively and set her Potions notebook on the table. He walked behind her and paused to examine Ginny’s workspace. Hermione could feel his cloak brush against hers and his smell flooded her senses.
“Miss Weasley, I forbid you from assisting Miss Granger should her sleeves become soiled.” Ginny stared up at him in surprise and glanced at her friend. Hermione glowered fixedly at the table then pushed off her stool, bumping against Snape’s leg and back as she did so.
He gasped. He still hurt from their session. With a grunt of satisfaction, she pulled off her robe and rolled her sleeves up, carefully and deliberately. The exposed bruise bloomed stark against her wrist. She stared defiantly at him as she sat down and was startled when he licked his lips with the very tip of his tongue and swallowed.
Insight flashed and she straightened upright.
On the one hand, he was humiliating her by forcing her to display his handiwork. On the other hand, the mark was proof of a shared private experience. A secret claim each on the other.
Then it was over.
He barked orders and scrawled the needed ingredients on the board. She hurried with Ginny to collect what they needed and they worked together. It was indeed messy, and she was thankful that she had bared her forearms.
When Snape was at the back of the room, Ginny leaned close to her to chat under cover of working on the exercise.
“What’s with him? This is one of the easiest assignments he’s given us. Ever. And it’s kind of fun.”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together.
“Do you think he’s setting a trap?”
She paused in her measurement, stared at the green powder she was handling. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“For you? Or us? Does he know?”
Hermione shrugged, trying to concentrate. She felt awkward, as though she couldn’t control her movements. The box she was measuring from jumped in her hand and spilled twice the amount into her cauldron, turning the mixture a bruised puce. She cursed to herself, thinking quickly how to fix what should have been an easy assignment.
“So, Miss Granger,” he said at her shoulder, looking down into the cauldron. “What seems to have happened here?”
She leaned over the table with her eyes fixed on the spoiled brew and refused to reward him with a look. “My hand shook, and I was just going to repair the damage.”
“Really? Why would your hand shake, Miss Granger? Muscle fatigue, perhaps?”
She glared up at him. He was openly mocking her now, his lip curling into a sneer, and a swell of anger rose up in her belly.
He folded his arms across his chest. “I hope you can cover the cost of the extra supplies,” he murmured, “that box you emptied I bought personally.” Hermione felt Ginny twitch beside her, and Snape’s eyes flickered from her to the red head and back. His jaws clenched, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, no, I didn’t tell anyone.
He lifted his head, staring down at her from the corner of his eye, then waved his wand over the cauldron. Vanished. “Detention, Miss Granger. No points for today’s work.”
Her jaw dropped. “Why did you do that Se-sir? I could have repaired it!” Pants, that was a close slip! She jerked back when he lunged forward to hiss at her, both hands planted on the table inches from hers.
“Because you need to learn restraint, Miss Granger. Because you need to learn to control your gestures, even if your body aches.” His breath washed over her and his hair swung forward to frame his face and focus attention on his down-turned mouth.
Flee. Every fiber of her recoiled. But when he said “aches” she remembered the aching between her legs she’d felt as she struggled for sleep and she forced herself to push toward him, if only by millimeters.
To her surprise, he withdrew the same fractional distance.
Then he tapped the cauldron, and she gawked as the potion returned, just as it had been before she tried to add the final ingredient.
Beside her, Ginny shuffled in her seat. What was this? Generosity? Kindness? Lunacy?
“Finish your assignment, Miss Granger. But I expect you in my office at seven tonight to serve your detention. And visit Madam Pomfrey about that wrist.”
He moved to another table. She flapped her hands to dispel the tension, then picked up the box of green powder and measured again. This time it worked well and she was rewarded with a beautiful silver bubble that rose with a tinkling sound and bounced erratically across the dungeon ceiling with those of her class mates. Everyone was giggling and magicking the bubbles around, joking with each other.
Hermione stole a glance at Snape. For a moment, she saw him relaxed and unguarded, smiling slightly up at the bubbles as well. Then he met her eyes and his face closed again. Her brows puckered in confusion. He rolled his eyes and began collecting supplies from the tables.
The class shuffled out, lingering to poke at the balls as long as possible. Hermione packed slowly, waiting for the room to clear.
Ginny edged beside her. “Hurry up.”
“Don’t worry about me, go on.”
Her friend frowned at her but picked her way across the room, glancing back occasionally. The door swung closed behind her, leaving Hermione the last student in the room.
“Miss Granger, why are you still here?” Snape asked as he walked beneath the bubbles and burst them with light flicks of his wand.
“Why am I serving detention?”
He stopped to look at her. “No honorific?”
“No, not now. Why?”
He waved his wand, making all the remaining bubbles vanish, then moved to her side. He leaned a hip against the table. “As I said, you need to learn restraint and control.”
She slammed her book onto the table. “I did not drop the box deliberately, it jumped from my....” She trailed off, stared at him open-mouthed. “You did that.”
“And if I did?” He rested his palms against the top of the table.
She punched him in his arm as hard as she could, then gasped and covered her mouth, stammering an apology.
He lifted his head slightly and regarded her beneath lowered lids. “As I was saying, restraint and control. And don’t forget, Miss Granger, I am still your teacher and you are still a student.”
She lifted her chin and returned his gaze evenly. He turned to face forward again. “Severus,” she said softly. His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look at her.
“My friends...they saw the note you left on the phial. And they know you caught me—they saw the bruise, well, everyone has now. And I think they suspect—”
“That I know you stole from me?” he finished for her.
“Yes. I mean to say, they didn’t know it was payment. That’s still between us.”
Snape glared at her. “No, Hermione, stole. What you took, Hermione, was my privacy, something you shouldn’t have tampered with.” He lingered over her name as he repeated it, and his voice trailed to an end.
“I hear an ‘and’ hanging,” she said.
He flashed a smirk. “Yes, an ‘and’ indeed.” He turned from the table and slid his right hand the short distance across the table to rest barely against hers. “You’re a smart witch, Hermione. You’re interested. I’m experienced.”
Her pulse pounded as she broke into a cold sweat and she churned his words over. On the face of it, he was entreating sexual favors. She’d interrupted him, been where she shouldn’t have been. She had only to tell Dumbledore or McGonagall that Snape had propositioned her. But that wouldn’t be right. He could point out that she’d stolen from him—which would cause problems for the DA’s plans. Hermione had spent the last night mulling over her body’s responses to what she’d read, what they’d done, finding herself wet and frustrated. On the face of it, he was stating the simple truth that she was evading: they both wanted the same thing.
Hermione moved her hand to cover his and felt his fingers tremble.
“It will take time for you to learn what I need you to know.” He wiggled his fingers to mesh them with hers. “More than that, I want to be sure you understand what I’m asking of you.”
She waited, not trusting herself to speak, her heart skipping beats as her mouth dried.
Snape looked fully at her, his face less than a foot from hers. “Please,” he breathed and pursed his lips, moistening them. “Come tonight in clothing you can move in.”
Hermione nodded, finding her voice. “Where should I meet you?”
“My office. Seven,” he said and pulled his hand from hers. “Now, go. Go to the hospital wing and get that bruise seen to.”
“Did you have your own bruises looked at?”
“Impertinent,” Snape snapped, frowning at her, then lowered his eyes and continued more gently, “as little as Madam Pomfrey would be surprised to see those marks on me, no, I did not, and will not. I bought them and I will keep them.”
“Then neither will I.”
He eyed her again and inclined his torso towards her. For a moment, she thought he might touch her again, but he turned on his heel and vanished into the class workroom.
###
“Hermione! Over here!” Ron shouted at her when she walked into the entrance hall from the stairwell to the dungeon. He and Harry waved at her and she joined them. “What happened in Potions today? What’s with him?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “That box just moved on its own.”
“Did he really give you your potion back?” Harry asked, his eyes wide. “I couldn’t believe that when Ginny said so.”
“I was surprised too,” she agreed. “But yes, he did.”
Ron hooked his arm about her waist, snugging her against him. “Do you still have detention?”
She nodded. “I tried to get out of it, but he wouldn’t budge.”
“Bloody git. Still, at least the class was fun for a change. ‘Bout time, after six years of class and a whole year working together, Snape would finally lighten up.”
The three went into the great hall and settled at a table. Plates of food appeared on the table, and pitchers of pumpkin juice and water. They each poured a beverage and watched Ron tuck into his food.
“Hermione,” Harry said, “I’m still confused by Snape’s behavior.”
She shrugged, broke a biscuit and buttered it. “I can’t begin to explain. Who can get inside his head?”
“Well true,” Ron muttered around a mouth of chicken. “Anyway, when do we use the potions? Has Seamus said anything to anyone?”

4 Sept 98, Potions Master's Office
Hermione tossed her book bag over her shoulder and quietly left the Gryffindor common room. She’d left her friends in the great hall, finishing dessert. She had watched Snape at the teachers’ table, eating and talking quietly to Professors Flitwick and Vector. For all the years she had seen him, she’d never thought much beyond him than that he was impenetrable, forbidding. She left table before he did, knowing that she had less than an hour to change, collect her things, and make her way down to his office in the dungeon.
The dungeon was dim and quiet, with most of the students still enjoying themselves at dinner. She had seldom had detention with Snape and, until now, had tried to avoid seeking him out outside of class. Eventually she found his office and stood outside, wondering if he was within or not. She extended her hand to knock, but the door swung quietly open before she could.
“Come in.”
She entered cautiously. His office was dimly lit, the walls covered in shelves of bottles and books. Snape was sitting behind his desk, marking scrolls, his hair obscuring his face. Hermione wondered idly how many vats of red ink he went though in the course of the year. She stood just inside the door and waited.
“Sit, silly girl,” he said irritably, not pausing or glancing up. She noticed then a stuffed, threadbare armchair just in front of his desk and she sat. The door swung shut with a quiet click and she heard the lock snick closed.
She watched him work, his spiky script darting across the scroll, a seemingly endless thread of red. It reminded her of the essays she’d written for him, how crushed she had been her first few years to get back a marked-up scroll that seemed to sneer with commentary on her stupidity. She eventually learned his approach was generic and consistent. Even the Slytherins got bleeding scrolls returned to them.
She was still wool-gathering when a mantle clock above her marked the hour, its chime reminding her of a clock her grandfather had and of Christmas morning as a child, racing into the family room for presents as soon as the clock struck seven. After a moment, she realized he had stopped working and was sitting watching her, his own face unreadable, waiting for her attention.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“I, oh, the clock sounds like one my grandparents had, and I loved to hear it on holidays.”
“Interesting.”
“What, sir?”
“I’m trying to recall the last student who sat in my office awaiting detention who was oblivious enough to smile inanely.”
“Why the bubble potion, Professor?”
A pained expression darted across his face. He stood up and pressed a shelf out of the way, disclosing a dark hallway. “Come.”
He silently cast Lumos and led her into the dark as the shelf closed behind them. At the other end, another door opened into a larger room filled with filtered light. The furnishings were what she had become to think of as standard Hogwarts antiques, a desk, a table with two chairs, more shelves of books, a battered sofa with a cluster of pillows and a throw, and a few mismatched armchairs. In the clear space at the center of the room stood a bolster-like object that looked like a tan-colored punching bag mounted at an angle.
There was a door directly opposite and two to her left, all closed. The door they’d entered through was covered with a full length mirror. The light in the room came from several tall, narrow windows to her right, and she realized the light was filtered through water.
“Are we below the lake surface, Professor?” she asked, taking a couple steps toward the windows. He caught her arm, stopping her, and released his light grasp immediately.
“Yes, but I must ask you, while we are here, don’t call me professor. Or sir.”
She fought the urge to ask, and returned a stoic gaze, waiting.
“Just Snape. Or Severus.” His nostrils flared. She inclined her head indicating understanding. “Did you dress comfortably?”
She put her bag and her school robe on the desk, to one side of the black bag he’d had in the potion’s classroom, revealing the teal velour jogging set she’d worn.
“Definitely Muggle clothing, but suited to our needs.”
“Glad you approve.”
“Indeed. Now, the crop has never been my preferred implement, so—”
“Then why—“
“I was acting out the scene. I didn’t expect to have company.” He lifted a flogger from the black bag on the desk, shook the tails loose. “I’d prefer to start you with this. The braided cat, which I had that day, is also unacceptable as a beginner whip.”
Leather strips of maroon and warm beige wrapped the handle in a herringbone pattern. Its tails were foot long, half inch wide strips of brown suede. On impulse she sniffed it as she combed her fingers through the blades and a thrill zinged from between her legs to her spine. The faint scent of tanned hide underlay the spice and herbal smells she now associated with Severus.
“You like leather.”
She hummed at his observation as she continued to stroke the tails. “Suppose.”
The soft hiss of his slow inhale sharpened her awareness. He’s irritated, but why? She sneaked a glance at him under her brows. Predictably, he’d folded his arms and his lips and brows had drawn into parallel lines across his face.
“Miss Granger—”
“Hermione—”
“Hermione, I’ve already appeared naked before you, physically and emotionally. It’s not unreasonable to expect some disclosure from you regarding your needs.”
Her needs. She pinched a spongy strip between her fingers. Admitting the fragrance and feel of leather did something to her, to him of all people, when she didn’t even understand it herself.... She’d never thought about enjoying the sensations as being a need. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “I guess I like it.”
“Any sense more than another? One earlier than another?”
“Odor, then touch, I guess. It’s hard, because I imagine the smell when I see it. I like to touch it, too.”
His sole made a sound in the carpet as he shifted his weight. “It may surprise you, but my goal isn’t to embarrass you.”
Her head popped up and she met him face on. His brows were drawn and lifted, as though she were a troublesome potion requiring analysis.
“You’ve just begun exploring your own sensuality. I don’t expect you to have much self-awareness. I do ask that you make some conscious effort to improve your understanding of yourself. I’m encouraged that you know your mind fills in for sensory gaps.”
“You’re not angry?” she blurted.
His head retracted. “What makes you think that?”
Any number of responses filled her head but she chose the one that betrayed how attuned she’d become to his moods. “Your breathing changed.”
The lines across his forehead lightened and she had the impression of amusement. “I’m puzzled, not angry. You’re acting in ways I consider out of character. The Hermione Granger I’ve suffered for seven years wouldn’t have gone along with obviously fake detention without a barrage of questions. I’m a spy. My survival depends on others’ predictability.”
“In other words, explain myself?” she asked. “I was curious.”
“About what?”
About him? What he was doing? What she’d read? All of that? Discomfort lit the way.
“What would happen, why I felt the way I did. Why I was turned on.”
He took another slow breath then gestured to the tiny dinette table. “Tea?”
The utensils and china he set out matched those in the Gryffindor common room. Hogwarts standard institutional. Perhaps the metal trim on his showed a bit more wear. He produced a tin of unremarkable assorted biscuits from somewhere as the water boiled. She took one reflexively and nibbled at it when she realized it was the same generic Tesco brand her parents preferred. He offered milk, sugar cubes, and fruit-flavored hard candies. Plopped a single lemon drop into his own cup and stirred with the more tarnished of the two spoons. It could have been tea with anyone, anywhere, but it was Snape in his private rooms with an awkward topic looming.
“How many of my periodicals did you read?”
She shrugged. “A couple. I lost track of time.”
“When?”
“The afternoon of the Welcome Feast. We arrived early.”
He set the spoon in his saucer silently. “Had you ever read such before?”
“In a library. Exit to Eden, I think it was called. A couple years ago on summer hols. It was a novel, no pictures.”
Did his eyes flash?
“What did you think of it?”
“I wasn’t sure.” She giggled, concentrated on stirring her tea. “I didn’t check it out. Mum would have had kittens.”
“No opinion at all.”
She pressed her knees together and concentrated on the swirling specks at the bottom of her cup. “I found the concept of a private island dedicated to sexual pleasure hard to believe.”
“But not what they did in The Club?”
He had read it. She wasn’t sure she could meet his gaze. Was it more unnerving that they had similar interests or that they were discussing it at school over tea? Slytherin S&M book club. Maybe it was a Death Eater thing—her mind transported her back into Malfoy’s dungeon and she suppressed a shudder, but her spoon chattered as she placed it in her saucer. “I suppose if you’re held captive—”
“The submissives were there voluntarily. Free will. Because they desired it.” He snorted. “Did you think I didn’t consent to your use of me? That you’d overpowered me?”
“Of course not. You could have picked me up and tossed me out.”
“Yet I didn’t. And you’re here freely. Can leave freely if you wish. We are here because we want to be here.” He selected and munched a digestive. “I offered to teach you. You’ve evidently accepted that offer, or are at least intrigued. I can explain what I will get from providing this service to you. I’d like to understand what you hope to gain.”
Explain herself. Could explain everything except this. She opened and shut her mouth several times, ended by staring at the tea pot.
“Let me rephrase.” He crossed his ankles and leaned back. The chair creaked. “I’ve hired professional dominatrices in the past. While they obtain non-monetary benefits, it is for them primarily a commercial activity. I won’t offer you money. You need no assistance with grades, if that weren’t repulsive to both of us. I’d provide a reference for you post-schooling if asked regardless, but few non-Slytherins ever approach me for that. Emotionally I’ll be of little use to you. What possessions I have are largely books but they are not on the table. I can’t see you wanting any of my personal effects other than incidental restricted substances. That leaves me, my knowledge, and my abilities. What can I, Severus Snape, offer you, Hermione Granger?”
He rested his hands on one another on his lap and waited.
“I don’t know why I find it exciting,” she said slowly, kept her eyes on his fingers.
“Why does anyone like a particular food? I can’t help you with why’s. I can help you explore your sensuality without hurting yourself or your partners.”
Hermione forced herself to look at him directly. His expression was neutral, probably a controlled mask, and she was reasonably certain her nerves were all over her face. “How’s and what’s, then. How to use a whip, how to control it, what turns me on or off.”
He hummed, sipped his tea. “It’s not all pain. It can be service as well, any activity that requires subsuming your will to another for their arousal or pleasure.”
“You make it sound like it’s the same as running an errand for someone.”
“It can be,” he said, leaning toward her. “Most of sex happens between the ears anyway. Or, perhaps you need to accept that you require the presence of leather to get wet.”
“But I don’t. I mean—no, I don’t.” He didn’t just say that, did he?
“But it might help.” He smirked. “You spent several minutes petting and smelling my flogger, indulging your senses. There’s nothing wrong with doing so, but if it engages you, shouldn’t you know that it has some effect on you?”
“Do you like leather?” Take that for prying, Snape.
He laughed. “I like how that flogger feels when it’s used on me in certain ways. It’s a means to an end. Leather of itself doesn’t interest me. Does learning to flog interest you?”
“It does.”
“Did you enjoy dominating me?”
Her stomach flipped and she stuttered vaguely.
“It’s fine if you did. Preferable, to my mind. We’ve agreed we both consented.”
“But enjoying having power over someone, it’s bad.”
“Bad?” One brow arched. “Is this Muggle morality? Did you feel deliciously naughty, Hermione? Do you now?”
Slimy git! Her skin burned. “That’s not, not, that’s not the point, Professor—”
He raised his hand in warning.
“Snape, then. That’s not the point!”
“What is the point?”
She just stared at him.
Snape pushed the tea service into the center of the table and rose. “Come.” He moved to the punching bag thing and laid his hand on it. “This is a practice dummy. The surface responds very similarly to skin, so you have accurate feedback.”
Hermione set her palm on it. Smooth, like leather, and vaguely warm.
He handed her the crop. “For illustrative purposes only. The crop can be a subtle tool, but it’s not typically used on or by beginners. For best effect it’s worked up to, although it can be handled crudely with acceptable results.”
“Like I did.” She looked at it now in the better light, the thin burgundy cordovan leather braiding, the handle made of cork, the pommel with a gold metal finial.
Snape took a step back, making room. “Remember how you beat me, Hermione, and strike the dummy.”
Hermione glanced at him, positioned herself, and brought the crop down across the dummy, feeling foolish and awkward. A red line striped across, reminding her exactly of the stripes she had made on him, and she turned her head towards him and waited for a response.
“Good.” He stood behind her, covered her hand on the crop with his, and guided her through the movement as he described it. “Move from your hip, through your torso, to your arm. The tool is an extension of the gesture. Understand?” His scent surrounded her and the warmth of his body against her started a prickling of her skin. He repeated the motion and she let him maneuver her though the throw, his hands firm on her.
“I think so.” He stepped clear again, and she swung, feeling the movement flow from her core. The resulting stripe was wider and darker. She paused, and struck again, with the same result.
He took the crop and moved before her and she fell back. He’d shed his coat and was just in his white shirt. “Observe.”
She watched, his strikes were smooth and practiced, demonstrating economy of movement. Graceful. For a moment, she felt ridiculous, knowing that her movement was clumsy and uneven in comparison. He looked back at her. “What did you observe?”
“No extraneous movement. Complete focus. Effortless.” Everything I’m not, she added to herself, biting her lip in irritation.
He shook the hair from his face. “Compare the marks.”
His stripes were significantly darker and deeper than any of hers. The welts were actually weeping. She ran her fingers over the moist lines and jerked her hand back.
“You want to be beaten like that?” she asked, looking up at him.
He scoffed, set the crop on the desk, and picked up the whip. “I have in the past. I don’t expect you to deliver a blow close to that. Consider it a word in a new vocabulary.”
“Experience?” She took the flogger from him as he offered it, feeling numb.
“Some, but also height, weight, sex. What does that mean for you, Hermione?”
She regarded him cautiously. “That I should worry if you come at me with a crop?”
Snape flashed a half-smile. “Perhaps, but mainly that it’s highly unlikely that you could seriously harm me.”
“Meaning that a safe word really isn’t necessary with me.”
“We both know that.” She expected a sneer to accompany his statement, but none did. “I would very much appreciate being permitted a safe word when we play, if only because we have just started together. One last point about the crop, which you seem to know instinctively. Only strike on fleshy parts. The rule of thumb with the crop is the buttocks, the back and front of the thighs.”
“And the palms,” she added with a smirk.
“That is your addition, and your message was made clear. The crop can be used to direct attention, to caress, to indicate position, with the underscore of threat. Psychological elements, maybe a bit advanced. For now, I’ll keep it out of my implement bag.”
She gestured at the dummy with the whip. “Same motion?”
“No. I’ll teach you two basic throws that will force you to concentrate on the tips.” He caught up the braided cat from the bag and gestured for her to make room.
“Why on the tips?”
“Because if you strike the target with the middle of the blades the ends will accelerate and wrap around. Unless you intend for that to happen, which takes practice to control, and I honestly don’t enjoy the sensation.” He began an easy left and right swiping motion across the target and spoke as he worked. “You want to control both forehand and backhand throws, make them as even as possible. Experiment with distance, from more contact to fanning the target. Do the same with the vertical throw.” The target blushed a warm pink. He altered to an up-down brush, then retreated.
She digested this information, swung the flogger to get the feel of it, then tried a sideways strike. The blades made a dull series of thuds and the blades swished off the dummy. His tails had kept neatly together, but hers splayed out across the surface.
“That’s fine, you can alter the strike by altering speed or adjusting your distance,” he said. “For now, focus on making the tails obey you. Try both, one may feel more natural.”
Hermione kept swinging until she found a combination that allowed her consistent motions both ways. Her arm and shoulder burned, her calves ached. She stretched her arm across her body and felt Severus take the whip from her hand.
“It’s past nine and that’s enough for now. Accuracy will come with time. I can give you an analgesic potion for the soreness, if you like.”
“I’ll need a target and a flogger to practice.”
“Neither of which are issued as part of a standard Hogwarts’ student kit,” he said. “Easily remedied. I’ll teach you the spell to transfigure the surface of an object to show your blows. Perhaps you can find something appropriate in your dorm or in the Room of Requirement, or the Room itself may deliver. I’d suggest using one of your little friends, but that would be a whole different fantasy.” She gave him a stony look. “That was intended as a joke, Hermione. The flogger,” he silently duplicated the item and handed her the duplicate. “Disguise it before you leave. You’ll note that the duplicate is not an exact copy.”
On the duplicate, the deep red leather had been changed to a light grey, the tan to a musty green, and the blades were charcoal. House colors. How fitting. He taught her the spell to transform surfaces and watched as she transfigured the flogger into a hardbound copy of Alice in Wonderland and pushed it deep into her bag.
“I suppose I should go.” Over, the evening was over, and her lungs seemed to have stopped working. The whole time she’d practiced she’d felt the heat of his grasp like a thermal shadow. His body had curled over and around hers and she’d never so much as held his hand.
“I’ll walk you through my office.” He tidied up the room—transformed the target back into an oversized green pouf, placed the whips into the bag, and sent the biscuit tin back where it came from—all with minimal effort, wand gestures tight and clean. He didn’t move unless he had to, for example, when he opted to manually push her chair under the table but levitated his into place, because his coat was draped across the back of the chair she’d used.
Just as Severus lifted his jacket, Hermione said, “May I…?”
He stalled with his arm extended. “May you what?”
She licked her lips. “Touch you? Before you dress.”
He straightened and turned his head toward her. “Why?”
“Curious.”
“That response will save you a few times, Hermione,” he said, tipping his head so he looked down his nose at her. “But I’ll agree, on some conditions. No contact below the waist, no loosening or removing of garments. On either of us.”
“That’s fine.” She pressed her open palms against her thighs, trying to covertly dry them, while her mind set up a chant of Think think think think.
“Shall I just stand here?”
Hermione pulled her wand from her robe. Almost without active thought, she made his chair scoot beside him and transform into a tall stool like those in the Potions classroom. He perched lopsidedly on it, one heel resting on a crossbar, and watched her approach. He kept facing forward as she circled to his back and tucked her wand into her sleeve. When she rested her hand on his right shoulder blade, he pivoted his head to look at her from the corner of his eye.
“Are you touching me because I am me or because I am a convenient body?”
As she worked through the logic of his question she felt the heat from her hand warm his skin. Her heart pounded and her voice fled. “You,” she managed to whisper.
“Continue.”
She glided her fingers across his shirt with just the barest pressure, brought her face close to his spine and inhaled. When she rested a hand on each side of his waist he twitched—ticklish!—she slipped her arms around him and pressed her chest to his back. He’d tensed as she’d embraced him but relaxed once she stopped moving. No way to know what he was thinking, but she was filled with lightness at being permitted to hold without being held. After a minute or so, she rubbed his chest and he tightened against the caress. Keeping her left arm curved around him, she retracted her right and stroked her fingers over his hair. It was limp with oil, no argument, had been greasy the day before as well, but the smell of Hogwarts-issue shampoo was unmistakable. Whatever he did or failed to do, it just didn’t work for him. Alert for tangles, she pushed her hand under the fall of it to expose the pale skin of his neck. He’d closed his eyes, from what she could see of his profile. She nuzzled behind his ear, taking in the scent of him, his clothes, vague tang of sweat and earwax—not unwashed odors but evidence of a long work day. Hermione tilted her head and brushed her lips against the fine hairs of his hairline just back of his ear.
His chest jumped as if he’d been kicked. She expected him to leap up, lock his punishing grip on her hand, at least bark at her. Instead, he simply held himself stiffly erect so she was uncertain if she should release him. A thought occurred to her.
“May I kiss—I didn’t ask—”
“Please.” He turned his head to meet hers, his eyelids nearly closed. Was it a request for a kiss, consent to be kissed—she guessed and put her mouth to his. He didn’t return any pressure. When she opened her mouth, he did the same. When she lapped his inner lips, he widened his jaws, granting her more access. Their tongues didn’t meet until she sought for his, even then he seemed intent on only echoing her movements. His docility unnerved her. Did this upset him?
She withdrew, confused at his response and her own surging lust, his heartbeats racing under her fingertips light on his chest. Their foreheads rested against each other. He wetted his lips by sucking them into his mouth and she realized he was watching her. From this proximity, meeting his gaze was exactly like staring into an abyss.
“If you’re sated,” he said softly.
“I’ll go,” she replied and made to pull decisively from him. He read her gesture and clasped her hand to his chest with the flat of his palm.
“I don’t mean to chase you away.”
“I do have homework, and it’s Friday night.”
“It’s unlike me to be lenient for students’ convenience,” he replied and his eyes narrowed. A joke, must be. She giggled uncertainly, got the reward of a half-smile before he kissed the backs of her fingers and released her. “I have duties of my own to prepare for.”
Hermione busied herself with her robe and bag, checking and rechecking closures. She heard the soft whisper as the stool became a chair and was pushed under the table, the sounds of him dressing. He’d discarded his robe near hers and she made way for him to pull it from the table and put it on. He met her eyes in the mirror’s reflection as he adjusted hair, collar, cravat, jacket, robe, finished by finger-combing his hair into place. Then the door swung inward and he sent a ball of light into the passage before he gestured for her to go first. She had the distinct impression of leaving an altered reality once the shelved door closed them into his office. He seemed to loom over her and the sternness returned to his face.
“Hurry back to your tower, Miss Granger, so you’re not out after curfew.”
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Cantata for Three Voices in G Major