Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4
The following evening brought with it a sense of wary excitement. Hermione almost daren’t believe that the potion she had been dreaming about for the past year may actually come into existence within the next two hours. At the same time she knew it was a long shot. The chances of making a novel potion successfully the first time were slim, and even slimmer was the possibility of it working as intended. Her excitement was also tempered by her apprehension at what Snape may have in store for her. Despite the pain he had caused, she felt he had given in to her request too easily, especially since she had been caught plundering his most precious stores without permission. But as this was her final night of detention, she was willing to suffer through it. And if the potion turned out as she hoped, nothing Snape could do to her would compare to what she had in store for him.
He was surprisingly courteous when she knocked on the classroom door, ushering her in without the usual terse dismissal. He had even prepared a cauldron and bench for her to work on. She wondered if he had misgivings about the way he had treated her the previous evening, although she suspected that he didn’t possess a conscience that allowed such a thing. After quietly waiting for him to take up his usual position at his desk, she opened her well-worn journal and began the process of assimilating ingredients. She knew the recipe and process by heart but wanted the book for assurance and to keep her on track in case Snape’s mood changed and he decided to do something that would knock her off kilter.
She had already collected a number of ingredients from shops in Knockturn Alley and Hogsmead, and had even found some rare herbs on a trip deep into the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid the previous spring. The other ingredients were relatively common and in plentiful supply in the store room. And then there was the issue of acquiring the Phantasmal ectoplasm that she suspected Snape would only surrender with some sort of painful compromise. It was the final ingredient required for the recipe and it needed to be handled in a very specific way. She decided to leave that tricky negotiation until she had made all the other preparations.
Hermione spent the next hour in relative silence, measuring, chopping, stirring and observing. Professor Snape watched her carefully and was somewhat surprised to discover that her actions were no longer bumbling and laboured. She moved, instead, with precision and dexterity. Fine droplets of perspiration gathered on her brow as she worked, seemingly absolutely focused on the task, as if she had forgotten he was there altogether. He realised that she approached brewing in a manner not dissimilar to himself. There was a passion for the process. An appreciation for executing each step with meticulous care. It was both disarming and enticing. He felt himself being drawn to her, not for the first time. The sensation of her pressed against his body had never quite left and the heat of her pert breasts, grazing against his chest like ripe peaches came back to him now. Despite his intention to prove a point to the insolent chit, he had only just managed to stop himself from burying his face in those delectable mounds and now found himself salivating at the thought.
He knew it was entirely inappropriate. She was, after all, his student. Even if it was only for another three months. Then there was the utter distrust that he should feel for her. She was damaged and angry after the war. It was something he understood, but it made her dangerously unpredictable. Her resentment for him was also palpable and while this should have been off-putting, for some reason, possibly due to the hyper-acuity of his senses caused by the quickening, he found it titillating.
“How did you acquire the Phantasmal ectoplasm?” Her voice cut through his thoughts.
“Peeves,” he replied. “When he was petrified by the basilisk, he released a small amount. I discreetly collected it from the scene while all hell was breaking loose. It’s the only useful thing he’s ever done.”
It was the first time he’d seen her smile in his presence. The desire within him grew.
She had clearly completed most of the steps in the brew and, as he watched, her bottom lip slipped between her teeth. She was wrestling with something and he knew exactly what it was.
She worried the soft pink bud for a few moments more before she appeared to gather enough courage to ask.
“I was wondering if I might have the essence now?”
He didn’t respond, keeping his face neutral, drawing out her obvious agony. Her body was rigid with anticipation. It felt wonderful to know he was responsible.
Rising slowly from his chair, he sauntered over to her, dipping into his pocket and producing the vial. He held it between his thumb and index finger, waiting for her to take it from him.
She held her breath. She was back to trying to steal past the sleeping three headed dog, Fluffy, knowing that, at any moment, she might be savaged. Her hand closed around the cool glass and as she pulled away, he dipped his index finger down, trailing it delicately along her own. Again, it could have been accidental but it wasn’t. He lingered a moment and then turned swiftly on his heel, returning to his desk to the sound of her shuddering breath being released.
She was shaken but relieved to have the precious ingredient with nothing more than a squirming stomach and tingling skin. She had given up on hoping that her body would obey her commands when he was near. It was a physical impossibility. And he knew it.
The recipe called for a mixture of the essence, powdered bone and liquefied fat to be heated in a conical flask over a moderate magical flame. The final addition to the mixture was to be three drops of her own blood. Measured in turns around a standard glass stirring rod, Hermione dipped the end of the rod in the swirling blue essence and gently twisted it to create a fine spiral strand. Three turns would be sufficient. She broke the strand away from the remainder of the essence and dipped it into the flask with the other ingredients, which were already bubbling away gently. Finally, she removed a razor blade from her pocket and, without hesitation, drew it along the tip of her index finger, allowing the rapid scarlet trickle to drip into the flask. Wrapping her finger in a handkerchief from the same pocket, she began to stir.
It was as if he had apparated directly behind her. One second he was sitting at his desk and the next he was standing so close that she was enveloped by a heady fragrance of cloves and sandalwood. One large hand slowly closed over her small one, while the other rested lightly on her opposite hip.
“The essence must not be plundered,” he drawled silkily in her ear, slowing her hand, and the glass rod in it, to a more leisurely rhythm.
“Stirring it is a sensuous process.”
He deliberately drew out the ‘s’ sounds, she thought, like the sly snake that he was.
“The rod should not be thrust . . . in and out . . . erratically. Allow it to establish its own natural rhythm. Do you feel that?”
She certainly did. And it wasn’t the rod in her hand. He was standing slightly to one side, with his groin above her hip. She could feel the heat emanating from him and her mind was screaming for him to move away. But she wanted to finish this potion. She needed it. So she remained passive, allowing him to continue moving her hand in languid circles. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, he took the stirring rod from her, capturing her hand in the one that had been resting upon her hip. She watched as he gently removed the handkerchief that was still wrapped around her finger then, agonizingly slowly, pulled her hand back towards him. She couldn’t see his face at all but suddenly felt a warm wetness as his mouth closed around the tip of her injured finger, sucking gently.
She felt her stomach clench and an exquisite ache in the core of her womanhood. There was a warm gush between her legs and she tried to close them quickly but his foot was wedged between her feet, splinting her legs apart. Finger still in his mouth he circled it gently with his soft tongue and she felt she might pass out.
“I . . . I . . . think . . .” She cleared her throat, trying to remove the constriction there.
“I . . . think I have it now, Professor.” She said in a small voice.
He gently released her finger from his mouth, then lowered his head near her shoulder and breathed in deeply, blatantly smelling her arousal.
“I believe you have.” He said, his deep voice rumbling along her spine. Her legs threatened to give way but she closed her eyes and repeated to herself, “My mind is my own. My mind is my own.”
He departed as quickly as he had arrived and she could see a rhythmic shaking in his broad shoulders as he strode toward his desk. He was laughing at her. Until now, she hadn’t known exactly how she would use the potion. But in this moment she was absolutely certain and even more determined that it should work. It had to.
***
The following morning, Professor Snape sat at his desk, bored with his final year potions class who appeared to be getting along perfectly well with their brewing. The quickening was making him tense and he was glad that Hermione was there to watch. She seemed particularly withdrawn, avoiding his gaze, and he suspected that the humiliation from the previous evening was weighing upon her. He didn’t feel any sympathy, as it was her attempts to humilate him that had led to the detention in the first place. But he was still disappointed that it was over. It was the most exciting four days he had spent since the war.
Suddenly he felt it. A strange sensation like something creeping slowly over his thigh. He looked down but could only see the usual cut of his tailored black pants. It continued. A swirling tickle that trailed from left to right and back again. Then the sensation crept up his leg, further and further until it was uncomfortably close to his groin. He hoped that some loathsome creature hadn’t somehow crawled up the leg of his pants. Frowning deeply, he was contemplating jumping up and checking, when he noticed something peculiar. Hermione Granger seemed to be focusing intently on a book before her, but her fingers were trailing slowly across her desk, drawing out an identical pattern to the sensation that was prickling across his leg. When her fingers swirled on the surface of her desk, it was mimicked by the feel of swirling fingertips on his thigh. What in Merlin’s name was going on?
She still appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in the book but her fingers edged forward on the desk, pushing further and further until Severus felt the sensation slipping under his boxer shorts, sliding along the outer edge of his balls. His mouth dropped open and he started breathing through it. His head felt light. The hand on her desk rubbed gently and his cock leapt. It felt just like her fingers were brushing lightly along his length. He started to panic. The quickening was making it hard for him to think. And so did her . . . Oh Gods!
He watched as she slowly picked up the smooth granite pestle from the mortar on her desk and wrapped her fingers around it. She absent-mindedly rubbed her hand up and down its smooth length and the sensation was transferred directly to his dick, which was now straining painfully against his trousers, creating a tell-tale tent under his desk. Since she was in the back row of the room and her movements were casual, almost nonchalant, she drew no attention. The same couldn’t be said for him. As his ragged breathing increased in intensity and volume, he stared down at a parchment on his desk as if it were the source of his discontent. Students shot curious glances in his direction. He had to get out of there. Fast.
He glanced up and was transfixed by what he saw. Hermione continued to regard her book with interest as she brought the end of the pestle to her lips, stroking its length with greater intensity. He wanted to run but he couldn’t. He watched her mouth close over the bulbous end and almost screamed out loud, closing his throat in the same way he did when he was being tortured, desperately trying to stifle the noise. She swirled her tongue around as she sucked on the end before removing it from her mouth and dipping the tip of her tongue into the tiny circular indentation in the top.
That was his undoing. He leapt from his seat and wrapped his robes around himself in a protective curtain. Lurching forward, he knocked over his chair and unsteadily made his way to the back of the room, snatching up the journal from Hermione’s desk before practically running to the ingredients store room at the back of the class. He only just managed to lunge inside, casting a wandless silencing spell before he ripped open the buttons of his trousers and came, spectacularly. Streams of his pearlescent release sprayed over the rows of polished glassware as he cried out with a mixture of guttural anguish and forbidden pleasure.
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Quickening