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The Quickening	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 32428 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- 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
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Chapter 3
He was doing it again. Hermione could feel Snape’s eyes on her but when she dared to glance at him, he appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in a thick tome called ‘Age of Potions’. She wasn’t sure how he did it. He reminded her of the Mona Lisa, whose smile was only apparent when you weren’t looking directly at her. Of course he was also nothing like the painting, as he had never come close to smiling in the six years she had known him. She wondered what it must be like to be so miserable for so long.
Hermione continued to neatly transcribe the words to the potion recipe, not caring to dwell on the idea of Snape as a lonely, unhappy man. It served him right. He had brought all of it upon himself. She didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for the man.
“Conflicted?”
Hermione jumped and inwardly berated herself. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t let the man, or his words, affect her. She kept writing and was secretly pleased with herself for not taking the bait.
When she didn’t respond, Professor Snape continued.
“When you feel compromised or faced with an internal dilemma, you chew your bottom lip,” he said, releasing the word ‘lip’ like he had just been sucking on it.
Hermione’s breathing quickened but she was desperate to remain calm. She also released her lip from between her teeth and made a promise that she would never chew it in his presence again. He was making it very difficult for her to stick to her planned demeanour of haughty contempt.
“Trouble in paradise?”
What was he talking about? She wished he would just shut up and leave her alone.
“Isn’t Mister Weasley . . . performing as he should?” Professor Snape’s nose was still buried in the tome.
Hermione snorted. Clearly, he was totally out of the loop with Hogwarts gossip. She was determined to make him feel left out.
“You must be a fan of ancient history,” she said, not looking at him.
There was a long pause before he prodded again.
“So he’s not the latest on the scene?”
Of course he wasn’t the latest on the scene.
“Not even close,” she said. And instantly regretted it. In her haste to make Snape feel on the outer, she had inadvertently made herself sound like a total slut.
“Really?” Snape looked up from his book, one eyebrow raised. His penetrating gaze fell on her and her eyes dropped back to stare intently at the page before her.
Why the fuck did she say that? She blew her hair out of her face, knowing she looked flustered. Thankfully she had only two more parchments to go. Hermione began writing more quickly, desperate to remove herself from his company as soon as possible.
“It won’t do to rush Miss Granger.” His voice was silky smooth. “You wouldn’t want to make an error with the transcription.”
The suggestion infuriated Hermione so much that her vision swam. The unfairness of it was threatening to overwhelm her. She cast about in her harried mind for a life line, something to stop her from going under completely. Then she had it. The potion ingredients. She would try to gain access to his private stores. It was a point of focus. A direction. And even if it didn’t work, she might have a chance of getting on Snape’s better side, if one actually existed.
She changed tack.
“What will you have me do after this?” she asked, slowing the pace of her quill strokes.
Professor Snape stared at her for a moment, noticing her shift in tone. What was she up to?
“I’m sure Mr Filch could find a use for you,” he said mildly. “He was just saying that he needed small hands for a . . . job he’s doing.”
Hermione was thrown again. The man was impossible. Everything he said had a double or triple or quadruple meaning. There was never a straight answer.
Professor Snape hid his smirk behind his book. She was so easy to manipulate. Like a marionette. He could pull at one string and she would raise her chin defiantly as expected, he could drop another string and her head would tilt at the thoughtful angle he intended. It was fascinating. And she looked genuinely appalled by his latest suggestion. She needn’t have worried, however, he had no intention of giving her to Filch. He was enjoying playing with her too much himself.
Observing her closely over the past two evenings, he had discovered so much that intrigued him. She was absolutely predictable in so many ways but full of complex contradictions in others. He found himself thinking about her more and more in his private time. And strangely enough, the quickening seemed to be somewhat abated in her presence, as if, with a steady target, it was prevented from building to uncomfortable proportions. He would be genuinely disappointed when the detention was over.
“Unless . . . you could offer your services in other ways?” He said, making an exaggerated show of licking the tip of his finger to turn the page of his book.
Hermione wanted to slam both hands on her desk and shout, “Are you asking for a fucking blow job?”
Instead she remained surprisingly composed, focusing on the task at hand.
“I noticed that your ingredient stores are getting low.” She was pleased to find that her voice remained controlled. “The bottom shelf with the student supplies has four jars that are almost empty. I could restock them for you.”
Professor Snape drew a finger down the length of his nose, considering her suggestion. It was true. He had allowed supplies to run low, perhaps unconsciously hoping it would cause further angst for the students. He noticed that her brown eyes no longer simmered with the anger that he had become accustomed to over the past two evenings but held motes of hopeful anticipation. He quite liked how it made him feel. But he hadn’t forgotten the humiliation that she had inflicted upon him only days before. He had endured intense and prolonged humiliation throughout his life and it had come to be his undoing. It always brought forth waves of other emotions from the earliest days of his life that he simply couldn’t tolerate. It was the main reason he had become a Death Eater. Out of everything she could have done to him, it was somehow the worst.
“Re-stocking the ingredients won’t take you long. You will also make yourself useful by polishing the glassware.” He snapped the book closed and was pleased to see her inadvertently scribble on the parchment she was working on. Without another word he disappeared into his chambers, leaving Hermione biting her lip, feeling conflicted.
***
The next day, Hermione found herself actually looking forward to detention. She had been desperate to spend time in Snape’s ingredients storeroom ever since first year. For the first three years, they weren’t allowed in there at all (she had only been in once) and for the past few years they could only enter if accompanied by Professor Snape, himself. Today, hopefully, she would be in there alone and could explore to her heart’s content. She would also have the opportunity to escape Professor Snape’s constant and wholly unnerving gaze.
He hadn’t said or done anything particularly overt over the past two evenings, but that seemed to be the root of the problem. His manner was subversive and his methods insidious. She knew that she wasn’t imagining the innuendos and double entendres - they were all part of his mind games.
Although she arrived early, Hermione did not dare knock until her watch had ticked over to 7 pm. The last thing she wanted was to appear over-eager. She knocked softly but caught her breath when the door was suddenly yanked open.
“Miss Granger.” Professor Snape nodded curtly before stalking back into the room.
She craved consistency. Something reliable in his mood or demeanour. But there was nothing. He seemed intent upon keeping her off balance. Constantly changing the rules. To be honest, he was doing her head in.
“You will re-fill the ingredients in the jars and then move onto polishing the glassware,” he instructed, his back to her. He seemed particularly dismissive as he sat down, straight-backed at his desk, focusing on the stack of parchments before him.
Regardless, she was grateful for the chance to extend the physical and mental distance between herself and the man who was rapidly becoming her nemesis, making her way to the room at the back of the class. Entering the forbidden space was like walking into a wonderland. The smell was complex and intoxicating. She couldn’t place any particular element, yet it was comfortably familiar.
There were two entire shelves filled with glassware. The equipment was rarely used by the students, even in their final year, but Hermione knew through extensive research that it was required for the distillation, titration and separation of ingredients. Not every component was useable in its native form, many requiring purification prior to their inclusion in recipes. It was fascinating and Hermione found herself absorbed in the process of simply looking before Snape’s voice reached her from the classroom.
“Unless you intend to spend the remainder of the evening in that room, I suggest you actually start doing something.”
Clearly, it was too much to hope that he would just leave her to her own devices. No matter. She was in her element and was happy to comply. She busied herself with checking the stores on the bottom shelf and re-filling them from the large containers of stock ingredients at the back of the room. There was so much to delight in: the worn metal scoops, containers of tiny coloured beetle’s eyes, pungent sulfuric powders, glass decanters of viscous honey-coloured liquids and vials of iridescent crystals. She had trouble finding the lacewing fly stocks and finally discovered them on the fourth shelf up. If she stretched up high enough she might just be able to . . .
She felt it like a gentle caress up her bare arm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand glide up beside hers, the sleeve of his frock coat trailing up her skin until his fingers grasped the jar beyond her reach.
“Your stature is not suited to this task,” his deep voice drawled just behind her. She felt herself recoiling, drawing in. “Perhaps a ladder is in order.”
She felt him move away, leaving a peculiar void around her. Before she could even determine the nature of it, he had returned with a wooden ladder which fitted perfectly against the shelves. Then he was gone. Hermione rubbed her fingers absent-mindedly along her tingling forearm. He hadn’t even touched her and yet his presence lingered. It was off-putting to say the least.
Trying to dismiss it from her mind, Hermione decided it would be safer to move on to the glassware. She found a soft cloth on one of the shelves and began to polish. It was pleasing to see the shine she could buff into each item with a bit of elbow grease. In fact, she found it so soothing and satisfying that she was shocked when she looked at her watch to find that it was already five minutes to nine. She was suddenly desperate to see what was on the top shelf before she had to leave. Glancing around to make sure that she was alone, she started to climb the ladder.
The wooden finish was so smooth to the touch, she realised that it must have come from years of use. Unbidden, the image of Snape’s agile hands moving up and down its length came into view. She shivered involuntarily and continued to climb. When she reached the top shelf, eyes roving over the various jars and phials, she gasped in surprise. It was more than she could have hoped for. Amongst the incredibly rare collection of ingredients which included Unicorn blood, Dragon scales, Mammoth tusk and Werewolf fangs, she discovered her final ingredient, the one she had day-dreamed about finding for nigh on a year - Phantasmal ectoplasm. She lifted the small vial to peer inside. The blue essence seemed to have a life of its own, translucent and ethereal, it drifted around the inner walls like a tiny trapped fog.
She felt like she could watch its magical form bobbing and churning for hours . . . something clamped tightly around her wrist and dragged her forcibly down the ladder. She was only dimly aware of sliding against the rungs before her feet finally struck one and held. She found herself face to face with a seething Professor Snape.
“What . . . do you think . . . you are doing?”
Hermione couldn’t speak. She was trapped between the hard wooden rungs and his even harder chest, his large nose hovering only an inch from hers. As she drew in ragged breaths, she was mortified to discover that her top shirt button had been ripped off, revealing her, now heaving, lace-edged cleavage.
“I said . . . what do you think you are doing?”
As each word dripped from his tongue, it simultaneously reverberated through her chest, such was the closeness of their proximity.
“I . . .”
Her words failed her again. His eyes were the blackest of orbs, drilling relentlessly into her own. Despite her intense fear, she was struck by the bizarre sense that, with their bodies pressed together and one of her arms held rigidly above her head, they could be dancing. Although his grip was now so painful that she was at risk of dropping her precious find.
“I’m sorry Professor,” she gasped. “I was only . . . “
His sole movement was the slightest inflection of one eyebrow.
“I was only . . . looking . . .”
“Only looking?” His words were deep and guttural. “Well if only looking is a reasonable explanation for one’s behaviour . . .”
He leant back slightly and slowly dragged his eyes from her face, sliding his gaze down her neck, to her exposed cleavage. He blatantly ogled the smooth, creamy peaks, his warm breath gushing over them as they rose and fell. Hermione flushed crimson as she felt her nipples hardening against the rough fabric of his frock coat. They were like beacons of shame and he tilted his head to the side to show that he had noticed, slowly running his tongue across his upper lip.
He had made his point.
“I’m really so sorry Professor.” Hermione’s words came out in a rush. “It was wrong of me to look through your private stores without permission. I . . . I would never normally do such a thing.”
“Really?” He said drily.
Hermione winced. He was referring to the Polyjuice potion.
“Not now,” she said weakly. “I’ve actually developed a keen interest in potions and I’ve . . . well I think I’ve come up with an original recipe for a potion . . . I don’t think it’s ever been made before.”
He humphed derisively and she blinked at the sudden blast of his peppermint and sage breath on her face.
“I know it’s hard to fathom. Perhaps with my current behaviour. And the fact that very few novel potions have been created in the past few decades. But I’ve done a lot of research. I’m almost positive it will work.”
He sneered at her and she winced, the pain in her wrist was almost unbearable.
“I’m afraid that if you don’t let me go, I might drop this Phantasmal ectoplasm and I don’t think either of us wants that.”
He continued to hold her in his vice-like grip.
“What is this potion called?” He spat the letter ‘p’ in her face.
“It doesn’t have a name,” she said. “And I’m not entirely sure what it will do. But I’d dearly like to try to make it.”
He stared at her. He was thinking. He couldn’t believe that he was actually considering her words. He would very much enjoy seeing her spectacularly fail, but he would enjoy even more exploring how much she desperately wanted it.
“You will trial brewing this potion in my presence tomorrow evening.” He released her wrist and snatched the vial out of her hand, all in one motion. Without speaking he dropped it in his coat pocket and deliberately leant forward, crushing her further with both hands braced on either side of the ladder before pushing himself away and striding out of the room.
***
“What happened?!” Ginny cried as Hermione limped into her bedroom. Now that she was head girl at Hogwarts, she had the luxury of a room of her own, but allowed Ginny to use it sometimes for study.
“I fell.” Hermione muttered, clutching her bruised wrist. “It was my fault.”
“What do you mean it was your fault?” Ginny frowned, putting an arm around her friend’s shoulders.
When Hermione suddenly pulled away, Ginny narrowed her eyes. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing.” Hermione answered too quickly.
“Let me see.” Ginny stepped around her and pulled up the back of her shirt.
“What the fuck did he do to you!” she cried. “Your back looks like it’s covered in Lavender Brown’s eyeshadow.”
Hermione sighed. “It was nothing Gin. I fell down a ladder and hurt myself. I shouldn’t have been up there. It was my fault.”
“Stop saying it was your fault.” Ginny admonished her. “You sound like a domestic violence victim.”
Hermione considered. It wasn’t that far from the truth.
“If that Asshole hurt you, you need to stand up for yourself,” she said. “Where’s your Gryffindor pride? The Hermione I know would have kneed him in the bollocks and bitten his enormous nose off.”
Hermione gave a weary smile despite herself. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. Although it most certainly was.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ginny demanded, hands on hips and genuine concern on her face.
Hermione looked her in the eye. “Don’t worry Gin. I have a plan. That Bastard’s not going to know what’s hit him.”
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The Quickening