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
- 5
- 6
13 Sept 98, Potions Master's Office
Snape heard a rap just when his clock ticked to two and waved the door open. Granger stood framed in the arch, hand raised to knock again and eyes wide.
“Startled me, sir.”
“Come. Sit.”
She closed the door gently behind her and sat on the edge of the armchair with her ever-present satchel on her lap. After a moment rustling in the depths of the bag, she extracted a notebook and a Muggle biro pen and looked expectantly at him.
He stifled an urge to laugh at her earnestness. “What would you like to know?”
After a glance at her paper—Merlin, she had notes!—she said, “Sir, why did you go into Potions?”
Easy. “I excelled at it.”
“Why did you choose Ciren?”
He couldn’t voice the primary answer, that Ciren sympathized with the Dark Lord and recognized his own declining vision as a death knell. Teaching Snape was a way to prolong Ciren’s own usefulness before the Dark Lord cast him aside. So he gave her the other two reasons, both mostly true. “He was the best Potions master at the time and invited me to apply.” Slughorn had been thrilled to write a recommendation, but his Death Eater colleagues’ support trumped all.
She frowned down at her notebook. “What if you’re not invited?”
“Research who may have openings and if they’re working in an area that interests you. When you find a match, you submit a CV, references, and make plain your intentions.”
Her scowl deepened.
“Is something unclear?”
“I’m interested in too many things. I do well in most, or I’d just pick what I’m best at. I hardly know anyone, outside of a few people in the Ministry.” She tilted her head. “How would I get someone to approach me, maybe because they felt we could work to a common goal?”
Tempted to dart upstairs to see if it were raining frogs. “That’s a curiously Slytherin question from a Gryffindor.”
“Then you’re the right person to ask, sir.” The corners of her lips curved upward. Not a hint of toadying, just genuine amusement at the situation. “It’s a way of narrowing my options.”
“Indeed.” He leaned forward, wished there were some reliable way to ken what logic she used. “Have you considered that whoever might rise to such bait might be an inappropriate choice? You might just be a means to another’s ends.”
Her full body twitch made her pen skitter erratically across the page. “I’ve thought about that a lot recently.”
He wanted to ask why she’d brought it up. Maybe not from his House, but she clearly conducted her discussion on two levels. So he waited. She clicked the biro several times before continuing, her head still bowed.
“Could I ask you about consent?”
“You may, but not here. Over tea?”
She rose in agreement and followed him down the hallway to his quarters. Perhaps this had been her plan after all? She took the same seat she’d occupied before, kept a close eye on him as he laid out things.
“Raspberry?” she asked, pointing at a dark red candy. At his nod, she spooned it out and lowered it into her cup. Stirred slowly, consuming time. “I’ve never known anyone to use hard candies to flavor their tea.”
“Surely you didn’t lure me into meeting with you to discuss my culinary habits.”
“No. I—“
“Consent.”
She set her spoon down and met his gaze. “Did I anger you the other day, when I kissed you? Does everything have to be agreed to ahead of time?”
“You surprised me. What makes you think I was angry?”
“Because....” She licked her bottom lip. “Because you jumped, then you didn’t respond.”
“Didn’t kiss you as you expected, you mean.”
Cheeks tinted. “No. It—I wasn’t sure how to read that.”
Snape glanced down at his cup as he lifted it. “I responded to you from a submissive role.”
“So, if I’d been more aggressive, you would have been also?”
“Perhaps.” He sipped his tea. Was she considering a repeat? An experiment? The soles of his feet tingled. “To answer your question, some prefer that all elements be discussed before hand. Some prefer a static script. There are benefits, and I’ve done those things, but I’m comfortable with some vagueness.”
Her brows knitted. “If you consent once, then is that forever? I mean, say you agreed that I could touch you last week and we’re in a similar situation now, would it still be in effect?”
He narrowed his eyes. Something lurked. “Not unless we were in a special relationship that had matured to a certain point.” He set his cup onto the table. “Why do you ask?”
Her head quivered in a rapid negative. “I just—”
“Hermione, has someone coerced you to do something?”
The sound of her name popped her eyes wide. “No. I mean, it was okay, just it was awkward.”
Small hairs between his shoulder blades stood on end. Years of counseling students who’d been cajoled into questionable acts by more seductive Slytherin upper classmates had developed his ability to spot trouble. Whatever had brought her here, she was still a student. If she’d been defiled, Minerva needed to know. “I don’t believe you. Who was it and what happened?”
“It wasn’t anything. Really.”
He let his face harden to frighten her into talking. She squirmed in her seat.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up!” She bounced to her feet, he lunged forth and grabbed her hand in his, forced himself to gentle his grip. She tugged at him then plopped back onto her chair. “It’s fine, I just did something that I didn’t want to do a little less than what I really didn’t want to do. You know? Haven’t you chosen the lesser of two, just to keep peace?”
“You weren’t violated?” he asked somberly. He knew, had faced the same choice.
Granger shook her head. “Of course not. I felt used. I made myself do it. I used myself. I felt cheap for it and I hate that.” He released her and she knotted her fingers together. “And it made me think about what we’d talked about, consent, and I realized it was more complex than I’d thought.”
Gryffindors—always oversimplifying life. As he sat back into his chair the fabric of her trouser leg reflected the light oddly. He tipped his head. Speaking of complex...same stretchy Muggle fabric as last week. “What were your intentions for coming here?”
“To talk. I don’t understand how my mind’s working and I think you do.”
He snorted. “I normally don’t expect honesty from students, but you’re a special case. Again. Why?”
“Fine. I practiced and I wanted to show you.” She lifted her chin as she flushed slightly. Excited, self-satisfied, nervous—despite his misgivings, he warmed to her and waved toward the center of the room.
“I’ll indulge you.” He Transfigured the footstool again, cleared space, and propped himself on the desk.
She shrugged off her robe, revealing another of the clinging garments, this time in black. His gaze stumbled over incongruent faint ridges over her bum and across her back which he realized marked the edges of her underclothes. Whatever the fabric was, it had a nap and his fingers itched to pet it. She turned to him, the duplicated flogger in her hands, brows lifted in question.
Didn’t trust his voice. Nodded, folded his arms, watched the fibers glisten as she moved.
Then made himself focus on what she was doing.
She had improved. When had she practiced? Both horizontal fore- and back-hand strokes fell evenly, although the vertical backhand needed work and she lost rhythm from time to time.
“Then I tried this,” she said, altering to a figure-eight pattern, then stopped to turn toward him. “It’s not so difficult once you get the feel of it.”
“No, it’s not. Wait here.” He crossed the room into his his bedroom, shut the door securely behind him, and delved deep into his closet where he’d tucked his implement bag behind his dress robes. Really all he needed was the red deer flogger, but he stroked the braided cat wistfully before he charmed the closet door closed and paused to look at his reflection in the mirror. He was indeed flushed, as he’d suspected. He felt fevered. Wouldn’t do. He sought for some composure. Just minutes before he’d worried she’d been pawed over by one of her peers, now he considered ways to put himself in the same position. Maybe his years around the Dark Lord’s minions had sullied him more than he imagined. The thought chilled him. No, she’d come to him, she’d orchestrated a way to make them be alone together in his rooms. She came dressed in Muggle exercise clothing, for fuck’s sake. What he wanted was just sensation and a few thrills. What she wanted was to learn to dominate and to wield the whips for her own pleasure. His thinking was just muddled by the lack of crisp monetary exchange.
He strode back into the living quarters. She’d sat back at the dinette and was drinking from her cup, but rose and joined him beside the dummy.
“Wrist twirl,” he said and demonstrated. “Very regular, both ways.” He made way for her to try. Directed her where to move. “See the blush on the surface? You build that so you can increase the sensation.”
“How?” She stepped clear.
“Like this.” He moved in an arc around the target, twirling the blades over the surface, thwack, thwack, thwack, then flicked the whip in a hard figure-eight that sounded sharply loud. He returned to the even twirl before stroking the tails in light, long caresses over the dummy.
“It’s not all pain.”
He let his arm fall to his side. “No, I told you that. Rhythm more so, perhaps. Sensation, not just pain.”
“I mean, you just brushed the whip lightly.” Hermione petted the flogger she held. “When I hit you with the crop—that hurt. This doesn’t, not really.”
Her words intrigued him. “How do you mean, this doesn’t hurt?”
Granger simpered, looked to one side. Embarrassment, he realized, maybe shyness as well. “Well, because I hit myself with it, to see what it felt like. It’s not bad, not like what I think the crop would feel like.”
“Did you like it?”
She met his gaze, glanced away. “Don’t know.”
Snape remembered his favorite domme comparing notes with a fellow while her subs knelt in a line. “I always test new implements on myself first.”
“It’s a good habit, to do that,” he said. He felt suddenly awkward, knowing what he wanted to ask. Like the first time he asked a girl to sit with him at a Quidditch match, the same icy rush from being shoved into the Black Lake. “Would you like to try on me?”
Her eyes swiveled up to meet his. “Sure?”
“If you want to.” He considered where to have her strike him, what would be easiest for her, how to keep it non-sexual. “I’ll kneel, you can flog my upper back. Don’t move, I’ll show you.” He stepped behind her, deftly outlined an area on her back, shoulder to shoulder to the flat of her scapulas and back. “Avoid the spine,” he added, drawing two fingers down the middle of her back. The fur of the fabric was springier than expected and caught on his nails. “Don’t strike below the ribs, the kidneys, pelvis.” He put the backs of his fingers against her sacrum, lifted his hand as though she were molten.
She might have been. He could smell her heat.
Granger pivoted her head to look at him over her shoulder, the lines of her neck echoing the curve of her nose. “Won’t you have to undress? Some?”
“I will.”
Her lashes lowered. What was she looking at? “May I touch you? Severus?”
The root of his cock sent a warning to his belly. “Are you comfortable striking my shoulders?”
“Think so.”
“I’ll strip to my waist and you may touch whatever is bare as you wish.”
“If I hurt you?”
“You striped me with a crop, Hermione. This is a far gentler implement.” He held out his flogger. “Use this one, not the duplicate.”
Her fingers wrapped round the handle, just touching his.
“One more thing. The safe-word. I was taught to use red for stop and green for continue. Yellow if something needs to change. Let’s use that system instead.” Muggle traffic signals, should be crystal clear to her.
She smirked, then frowned. “Thestral was the first—”
“Word that came to mind. I’m likely to fall back into what I’m familiar with, we’ll use that. Red, yellow, green.”
He turned from her, drew his wand from his sleeve, and altered the footstool into a low padded riser with a padded upright, a modified version of a kneeling bench he’d used. She’d set her flogger on the desk and sat beside it, her chin tucked, following his movements.
“I suppose you like watching me disrobe?”
She blushed, said nothing. Wasn’t used to her being so quiet.
“Did you watch me strip from the closet?”
“Yes,” she said. Her gaze seemed glued to his hands as he worked the buttons of his coat and sleeves, untied his cravat and pulled it loose, placed each garment on the desk chair. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an audience when he’d undressed, certainly not one so attentive. “Am I embarrassing you?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Your….” She chuckled. “Your cheeks are red.”
“It’s been a while.”
“I thought you hired, had….”
“Dommes, yes, but I readied myself before they entered the room.” He had to loosen his belt and trousers to pull his shirttails loose and turned his back to do so, secured himself before pivoting to drape his shirt over the back of the chair. Not surprising that he was blushing given the frozen sear of uncovering under her gaze.
He could imagine what she thought as he stood half-naked before her in the green-tinted afternoon light. Blood sports had been a hobby in the Slytherin boys’ dorms, a practice he’d forbidden and punished once he took control. Slughorn never noticed what his students got up to—or cared, really, unless they were his favorites. He’d added to his collection during his time as a Death Eater. Could name who gave him most of them, too.
He was no prize, that’s for sure, between all that and his parents’ good looks.
But she approached anyway, extended her left hand, stroked a line from Adam’s apple to navel. She leaned close, her breath ticklish, and…smelled him? “Can you, er….”
He went to the block, knelt, and rested his hands on the cross of the upright. It broadened his back but was low enough to let him guard his face. She drew the same lines he’d drawn on her, indicating she understood. Then didn’t move.
“How do I start?”
He smiled at his chest. “Lightly, until my skin reddens, then vary blows.”
“How long?”
“Until we’re done.”
If the flippant vagueness of his answer bothered her, she made no sign. Instead, she draped the tails over him, stroking his back, arms, shoulders. When he lifted his head up, she drew the tails over his face, neck, and chest, seeming to instinctively understand—no, she’d read what he’d left for her. Good girl. He noted the release of a knot in his gut only by its absence.
Then she brushed his hair forward off his neck and began beating him and he focused on what she gave him. Just as the sensation started to fade, as his tolerance plateaued, he asked her to step closer, directed her around to spread the blows. When the intensity of her strokes varied unexpectedly, he muffled his startled gasps into the padding. She wrapped the ends and interrupted the rhythm, but the soft hide tempered the faults of her inexperience. His flesh hummed. He was on the edge of making her stop for her own good when she discarded the leather and fell upon him.
Hermione bit him on his neck, his arms, his armpits. Her hands blurred over his burning skin. He whimpered when she circled his nipples, whined when she pinched the nubs, and surrendered to her when she plundered his mouth. Would have lost himself in utter gratitude for the shadow reminder of favorite scenes, except her palms circled ever downward on his belly and he cupped his hands over hers.
“Not there.”
“But you’re hard, Severus, I can see that.”
“No.”
“But you’ll hurt.”
He huffed and opened his eyes to look in hers. “Girls still fall for that?”
She glowered and he wondered what he’d said, then she kissed him again, watery sweet like pear nectar, and he forgot anything else. Somehow he found himself supine on the rug with her leaning on his chest while he toyed with the pelt of the peculiar stretchy velvet spanning her back. She kissed him, sucked his lips, bit his neck—his mind had uncurled and he didn’t care what she did. If his high collar didn’t cover a blemish, any one of several potions or charms would sort it.
He wasn’t certain when she switched from mouthing him to watching him.
“Having fun?” she asked and rocked her torso under his hands to emphasize what she was asking about.
Severus plucked at the garment. “What is this fabric?”
“Stretch velour. I think it’s synthetic.” She giggled as he skimmed his hands over her arms and shoulders. “I assume you approve?”
“Beguiling,” he murmured, repeating the caress as his balls tightened. Warm, soft, pliant, a perfect metaphor for—
“Shall I remove it?”
“No.” He stared at her and dropped his hands to the floor. “Release me.”
Granger looked at him oddly for a moment, then intoned, “You’re released,” as though canceling a spell. Maybe she was. The charged connection broke and they were two individuals recovering from a shared labor. She rolled to her feet and pulled on her robe. Snape sat up, found only familiar aches in his joints, stood slowly. His knees seemed weak. It’d been too long since he’d tasted his flogger and the congestion in his groin distracted him. Not to mention the warm void where his alertness usually sat. He reached for his shirt and she pivoted, her face a mixed expression of confusion, concern, hurt.
“That’s it?”
He grimaced as he settled his shirt on his shoulders. “Largely. For now. You expected more?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.”
Leaving the sleeves and shirt undone, he sat in the desk chair and looked up at her. “You’ll have to talk to me, Hermione, I can’t read minds.”
“I feel something’s missing.” She twisted buttons of her robe between her fingers, her eyes lowered. “In the stories, they—”
“Those are fantasies. Fiction.”
“I understand that,” she said with pique. “What about when you hired—”
”Don’t compare yourself to them. You haven’t the skill yet.”
“But I want—” She cut herself off. “More.”
He knew what she wanted. Could smell her frustration. His body responded to the traces of pheromones, her proximity, everything. “Greedy.”
Her eyes blazed. “Is that it?”
“It is.” He started buttoning his sleeves, kept his voice non-committal. “It takes time to learn this—”
She straddled his legs and fisted the fronts of his shirt. “Tell me.”
His hands planted her on his lap before he’d had time to consider what he was doing and pushed her crotch against his. “You want servicing, Hermione. Your clit wants tonguing, your cunt wants filling. You need to climax, little Gryffindor, and I can’t help you.”
“What did they do?”
The musk of her humid sex dizzied him. “They satisfied themselves outside of session, either by themselves or with their partners, I suppose. Dommes are not whores, Hermione, nor are they lovers.”
Her fingers loosened. “This is all?” Plaintive. He recalled the first time he’d submitted, how he’d left the woman’s office feeling as just as conflicted as Granger seemed to be.
“No. There can be more.” He paused. “As a reward, one of my dommes would order me to service her. It was earned, Hermione.” And she even let him taste her on occasion, but he kept those memories locked away. “It was earned and negotiated, consented to.”
“I could order—”
“That would be nonconsensual, Granger. Rape.”
Her eyes glazed and she blinked rapidly. “I didn’t mean without, not without—” She struggled and he wrapped both arms around her, shushed her, and she calmed.
“I wouldn’t submit, Hermione. It wouldn’t happen.” He stroked her hair, reminded himself she was young, a student, should have pitched her out—had he been any different the first time he’d asked a tart to let him spank her, exultant over making fantasy real, terrified of his own lust, the marks he’d left? “Are you drawn to this?”
She nodded into his neck. “I don’t know why.”
“Did you enjoy what we did together?” Whipping him, touching him, making him squirm and cry out?
“Did. But I feel like a hole’s in me.” She craned her head to look at him, cheeks streaked. “And you didn’t get to come.”
“Is this about you or me? Because I don’t need you—or anyone, for that matter—to satisfy myself. Men spend most their lives befuddled by their genitals—it’s not terminal.”
“That leaves me, then.” Her mouth turned down and she averted her gaze. “I’m making a fool of myself.”
“I told you the first time we talked. You’re just starting to explore yourself.” He cupped his fingers under her chin and lifted it so she had to face him. “I offered to teach you to use these implements. That’s all I offered.”
“I marked you.” She traced a few raw spots on his collar bone and neck.
He shrugged. “Temporary. And under clothing. Maybe not that one,” he admitted as she touched a place close to the hinge of his jaw. “No matter. You enjoyed it?”
“Yes, but—”
“No ‘but.’ Yes. As did I.”
She brightened. “Did you? Will you....” She glanced over her shoulder toward the bedroom door.
“Cheeky. I’m not discussing that with you.” He pinched behind her knee and she yipped. “As it is, the first month of term leaves me very little time.” He rolled his eyes. “Students—every year, you’d think none of them ever spent a night away from home. Even those who return.”
“Never thought about it like that.”
“Not surprised.” He sighed. “Now get off me so I can dress.” He put his clothes on with an audience, tempted to hum a stripper song as he did. He reflected. Twice now she’d grown restive around the topic of consent. He left his cravat off and pointed to the chair at the dinette. “Sit.”
He sat opposite her again, pushed the tea things to the center of the table. “You’re not in my House, but I don’t think you’d appreciate me telling Minerva about what we discussed earlier. For the time being pretend that’s a green badge on your robes.”
She stiffened. “There’s no need—“
“Quiet. Males are as capable of surviving sexual frustration as females are.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It was a female?”
Her jaw dropped. “No. I told you, it’s fine.”
He tapped the table hard with his index finger. “You say that, but you were just crying on me when I pointed out what non-consent means. Why would you respond like that if this weren’t upsetting you?”
Her lips compressed and she glowered sullenly back at him. It occurred to him that, before this year, she would never have responded to him like that. Probably wouldn’t outside of the current private space. He never tolerated sulkiness from non-Slytherins. His willingness to extend his acceptance to her gnawed at him and he frowned.
In an instant her expression adjusted to neutrality.
“I just hadn’t thought about the implications of it, consent, I mean.”
“The next time you’re in a similar position—”
“I won’t back down.”
He could almost hear her asking if he was done, could she go, so he leaned forward again. “If you come to me again like that, I will take you to Minerva.”
“Understood.” So she said. Her brows gathered again and she asked, “One of the stories mentioned soft limits. What are those?”
Snape sighed and settled back. “Quickly. During scene negotiations, hard limits are things you won’t do at all, and soft limits are things you might do. Breaking a hard limit might mean all action must stop or even that partners can’t play together again.”
“And they don’t change?”
“They can.” He rearranged the spoons on the saucers. “Up until this year, I had a hard limit about being even partially undressed before a student. Obviously, that’s become a soft limit between us.”
Granger became very still. “What I did to you, it really was non-consensual.”
“We discussed that, no need to worry now,” he said firmly.
“It’s just one-sided? Just the submissive?”
“No. You as dominant or top can also have limits. Perhaps you’re turned off by the sight of blood. You could set a limit of not using any implements that might break the skin.” He could think of several better examples, but she was new to this. No need to terrify her.
“Top?”
“Yes, I think that’s a better term for your role. You’re not quite a dominant.”
“What’s the difference?”
He tapped her on the sternum. “It’s here. You have moments, but for now, just topping, doling out the sensation. And I’m bottoming, accepting the sensation.”
Her eyes moved as she studied him. “This is complicated. I never thought of it as giving you something.”
“You are. Do.” He stood up. “I need to return to my work.”
She checked her watch, rose in a hurry. “It’s half past three!” She scurried to the desk, disguised the green flogger and buried it in her bag, and fidgeted with her hair. His turn to watch, and he relished it as he did up his tie. She reached for the door, but it remained closed.
“Aren’t we going?”
“We are, but we need to do one thing that must always happen any time my implements are used.” He retrieved his flogger from the floor where it had been abandoned and handed it to her. “Hold the handle to me.”
She gave him a quizzical look, grasped it round the neck and beginning of the tresses, and offered it to him about neck level. He bent at the waist and, keeping his eyes on hers, pressed his lips to the handle, close enough to her that his cheek brushed her knuckle. As soon as she understood what he meant to do, her eyes lit. When he kissed the whip, her face glowed, then her eyes widened.
As he straightened, before she could spoil it, Snape raised a finger to his lips. “You know, I know you know. Keep it here.” He set his fingertips on her sternum again. The door opened behind her. “Now we leave.”

13 Sept 98, Gryffindor Girls' Dorm
Hermione slowly climbed the stairs from the dungeon and absently dodged Slytherin students heading the other way. The skin on her chest still burned with the remembered touch of his fingertips after he’d kissed the flogger handle.
Her response to seeing the bloom on his skin, her hunger when she’d heard him whimper…. Forget who Severus was, her own reactions confused her. She had never considered herself a violent person. All those times she’d expressed herself physically—punching Draco, walloping the boys with whatever was handy….
Not only that, but her experiences with Viktor lit something in her that she seldom got with Ron. She’d thought it was just novelty as Viktor’d been her first. She wasn’t sure now, especially after Severus had jammed her onto his lap.
She stopped just inside the Entrance Hall. She’d become too quickly accustomed to thinking of the Potions master by his first name. Had it just been a couple of weeks ago he’d been simply a bitter mystery and now…what? Not Snape, that’s certain. Patient. Sensual. Accessible, if approached right. She shifted the book bag on her shoulder and continued to the Gryffindor dorms.
Back in her room, she settled at the tiny desk beside her bed to practice Arithmancy calculations. She scribbled testily at a maths error. The scrape of the nib recalled his quill moving across parchment in a pool of light—she leapt up and paced the room, her right shoulder and arm stiff.
Hermione growled and glared out the window at the sunny, clear day. Her classmates were probably scattered throughout the castle and village snogging in abandon. She was alone, achy and restless. Ron…. She pressed her forehead to the glass and could just make out the flash of a red uniform in the air near the pitch. No, even if he were available, that was wrong to shag him while her mind was on someone else. Wasn’t it?
That twinge of guilt hadn’t stopped her before—if anything, it had become a spice of its own. There’d been times when she’d closed her eyes with Ron in her and imagined her fingers were digging into Viktor’s well-muscled back. At first, she’d done it just as comparison, which seemed a reasonable exercise. Then she’d found it took her mind off minor irritants, like a cramp in her hip or a wadded sock under her back.
Sometimes it got her into trouble.
Viktor had growled in pleasure when she chewed on him and had bitten back. From the sly looks his wing mates gave her, he must have shown off his marks. But Ron complained and hissed at her to take it easy. If she thought too much of Viktor, she did what came natural, and biting and sucking felt natural to her.
Severus…well, he didn’t seem to react either way. She snorted. Predictable.
The stiffness crept into her neck, and she massaged the muscles. Analgesic? Maybe, but the bathrooms were probably vacated.... Smirking, she poked through Ginny’s toiletries for the Quidditch player’s muscle soaking salts, collected fresh clothes, and slipped down the corridor to the bathrooms. She added silencing spells to the bathing alcove she claimed, filled the tub with steaming water, added in the salts, and sank in.
As she floated in the warmth, she let her mind drift over the day’s events and merge reality with fantasy. His teeth—they’d frightened her for years, reminding her of the horrifying images in her parents’ trade dental journals. On some level, his dentition wasn’t that much worse than many in England, but the uneven jags of his lower teeth recalled piranha and other biting fish. She imagined his mouth on her, tongue lapping softly at her—perversely, she imagined him gnawing at her and contrasted that alarming thought with the memory of his insistent kissing as they’d lain on the floor—and her hands drifted downward over her body until she rubbed herself slowly, fingers slipping into her folds. Aside from her wrist, when he’d been angry and probably frightened, he’d not harmed her. When he’d shown her how to throw the flogger, his firm grasp had been gentle. She pushed two fingers into herself and sighed, recalling how concerned he’d been, how hard his cock had been against her—her eyes flipped open and she froze.
Your cunt, he’d said. Your clit.
Said it, probably smelled her—Hermione slipped further into the water so it covered her chin. She’d soaked the gusset of her knickers and the crotch of her track suit. She’d probably even left a damp spot on his trousers. How would she meet his eyes in class, knowing what they’d talked about? Done together? Oh, it was so much worse than the first day of class, his knowing she was aroused and calling it out.
Was he even now doing what she was doing, thinking about her, her soaking cunt—the phrase popped into her head, she imagined him saying it, saw his lips forming the words—was he stroking himself as he soaked in a soothing bath? She couldn’t get the obscene words out of her head now and said them aloud, heard her voice bounce off the ceramic of the tub.
Holy Merlin. She’d asked him if he’d masturbate. Of course he’d shut her down. One thing to do it, to watch him do it, but she had no right to casually discuss it. She covered her eyes with her free hand, examined what else she’d said to him. Sucked love bites all over him. Pointed out he was hard. Offered to take off her shirt, which was when he’d stopped it all.
Ron wouldn’t have stopped. Viktor might have. Severus did, even though he was aroused and knew she was and she’d offered and he could have taken her, but he didn’t. I can’t help you.
He’d kissed the whip—she felt the rush boil up again—and that coupled irresistibly with his restraint. Stripped for her. Knelt for her. Her mind broke loose, churning up images, his body offered to her to touch, explore, taste, tease. His hard limit had become soft for her. Limits change. Another thrill shot through her. Right now he refused her, maybe later he would let her demand more. And when that time came, what would she say?
What would she ask for? She’d have to be as direct as he was, or he’d stare her down. Could see his stern face now, challenging her. What do you want me to do, Granger? Mistress?
She spread her fingers over her vulva, pubic hairs snagging on her wet skin. What did she call this part of her anatomy? Formal terms really, official names, never slang. Vag, maybe. Outside of the doctor’s surgery, sex ed, and her mother explaining her periods and how sex worked, she really never referred to her…parts. None of her boyfriends had either.
Both Ron and Viktor had licked her there. She didn’t ask—they didn’t ask—it just happened. Well, maybe not just—both boys knew, from lads’ mags or somewhere, that it was a turn on, a way to get her ready so they could shag, a preliminary step towards the main event. Maybe even a distasteful first step. Anyway, not an earned reward, not something to be worked for.
She couldn’t order Ron to perform cunnilingus. Pants, it sounded so clinical. Not like what he’d said at all….
You want servicing, your clit wants tonguing, your cunt wants filling. The phrases echoed deliciously in her head in his smooth purr with his lips shaping around his crenelated teeth. He’d press against her, mouth hot. His face would be slick with her fluids, because she’d ordered him there.
Hermione worked at her clitoris frantically then, the fingers of her other hand diving into herself. If he said cunt, so easily, so naturally—he was cruel, crude, direct, after all he was Snape—what other words did he use? Her mind became a thesaurus of slang, words she’d heard boys whisper amongst themselves, that she’d seen on bathroom walls and in dictionaries, every one burning through her head in his baritone.
You need to climax, little Gryffindor.
Oh yes, she absolutely did, and knowing he knew what she needed sent her over the edge. The water sloshed over her pebbled nipples as she came in panted whimpers, eyes screwed tightly shut, imagining him naked at her feet, skin marked with the stripes and bites she’d given him as he surrendered as well.
She lay pondering in the tub ’til the water had turned tepid and she heard movement outside her alcove, then climbed out and dried herself as the bath drained.

15 Sept 98, Potions Classroom
Ron had already set up his workstation when Hermione hustled in, hurriedly unpacked her things, and laid out her tools in record time. Ginny edged out of the way of flying elbows and glanced back at her brother and Harry in concerned amusement.
A moment later, Snape slammed the door behind himself and strode to the front of the room.
“You’ll not need equipment yet.”
Hermione’s head snapped towards Snape, and she huffed loudly in exasperation. His black eyes narrowed, and he glared at her coldly before shuffling the papers on his desk.
Then he got on with it. He lectured and wrote notes on the board, drew a large diagram that showed the principle he was droning on about. He finally stopped and told them to start brewing.
Ron concentrated on his work. This particular assignment wasn’t so bad. Less about careful preparation or timing and more about adjusting portions of the brewing process to vary the outcome. He’d got nearly to the midpoint when the Potions master brushed behind him and circled round the girls’ table without slowing.
“Sir? Professor Snape?” Hermione called. “May I have a moment?”
Snape half-turned towards her, a few feet from the table. “You have a question, Miss Granger?”
She gestured down at her work. “About my technique.”
Snape craned his neck to look into the cauldron without going any closer. “What, exactly?”
“These damascena seed pods—I want to keep them intact while extracting their essence. Is my stroke timing acceptable?”
“Show me.” He wrapped his robes closer around himself as she stirred. “Tolerable,” he said frostily and started to step away.
She jerked her head from her cauldron. “Is there something I should change? Is this the best way to-to bruise without breaking…?”
Snape’s lips thinned. “Your rhythm is deplorable.”
Her stirring rod clacked erratically against the inside of her cauldron. She returned her attention to her task while Snape remained and watched her with a hard expression.
How she could carry on and ignore the git, Ron had no idea. When Snape’s gaze scanned across the middle of the room, Ron hastily focused on his work.
“Professor, is it only the rhythm?” Hermione asked as he started his prowl again. “Or do I need to alter how vigorously I stir?”
They’d just covered that in the lecture. Even Ron could remember back twenty minutes. Snape clearly looked as though she’d asked about the most idiotic question he’d ever heard, and Ron braced himself for a blistering retort.
But instead, he snugged his robes closer and leaned towards her slightly. “Passable.”
Hermione exhaled hard.
“For a Seventh Year,” he added coolly as he moved away.
She stared after him, her mouth slightly open. He glided to the third table over and gave her a smug sidelong glance before he bent over another cauldron.
Hermione’s hair fell forward as she tended to her brewing.
Snape called time and collected the stoppered samples with a flick of his wand. Ron immediately set to cleaning up. Lunch was next, and the sooner the better. He’d just finished Scourgifying his cauldron and utensils when the clean phial landed lightly beside his hand. Snape did that rarely, sending the empty sample containers back as he circled the room with a basket of them. As he passed near the girls’ table, Hermione staggered when she swung her laden satchel over her shoulder and lurched backward into the teacher’s path.
They both grunted when they collided. The phials he’d sent to her table shattered when they dropped, and his empty basket got knocked from his hand.
Hermione poured out apologies as Snape glowered at her. She whipped out her wand at the same time he did. Their simultaneous Reparo spells fused the broken bottles into a lump of glass, and she squeaked when she saw what had happened.
“Granger—class is over. Get out.” He bent to retrieve the basket and nearly bumped into a Ravenclaw, who blundered clear and trod on Pansy’s foot.
By the time Ron and Harry pulled themselves together from sniggering, both girls had gone.
###
“Did you see this?” Seamus asked as he shook a copy of the Prophet in Harry’s face. “Can you believe it?”
“If you’d just hold it still!” Harry replied and grabbed the folded newspaper. He scanned the article. “They’re reimbursing Malfoy for damages to the Manor?”
They’d convened in the boys’ dorm after dinner to dig through what Remus had collected for them about the remaining rogues. Ron had dumped the package of clippings and notes that had arrived with the lunch post on the floor. He, Hermione, and Dean sat in the middle of it and read through each item while Seamus and Harry glowered over the newspaper.
“He’d given it up to You-Know-Who as his headquarters,” Seamus continued.
“He argued that since he was incarcerated and his heirs were in hiding, he couldn’t be held liable,” Hermione said without looking up. “Legally, he had a strong case.”
“I suppose you agree with the verdict,” Seamus retorted.
She looked up then. “I didn’t say that. But he can’t really be held responsible for what happened when he was absent.” She exchanged a glance with Dean. “It happens in the Muggle world, you know. With squatters.”
“He should have tried to evict them, then,” Dean said. “My uncle had to do that.”
“But he couldn’t because he was in Azkaban, and the Ministry doesn’t allow prisoners to start legal actions not related to their own incarceration,” she said. “It’s a clever argument—”
Seamus interrupted her with a growl and plopped onto his bed. “It gives them a base to work from, and I’m sure they’ll repair everything. Then all they need is a rally point, one more powerful wizard—”
“Don’t be so sure,” Hermione said slowly. She’d unfolded a square of parchment. “This is from Tonks. No—Remus copied it from Tonks’ office. Apparently the Aurors have insisted on incorporating Dark Arts preventative wards into the rebuilding project and will inspect regularly.”
Ron and Seamus shared a glare of disbelief.
“Hermione, you don’t really think Malfoy will agree to that?” Ron asked as he leaned over to look at the document she held. “I mean—Bloody Hell, they made him take an Unbreakable Vow with Shacklebolt.” His eyes went wide. “They have him, then.”
“Think so?” asked Seamus. “You don’t spend enough time in the Dungeon bogs, Ron.”
They all turned to look at Seamus.
He laughed nervously. “I don’t mean like that. I mean I overheard some of the snakes talking one day about how Snape supposedly figured out how to break the Unbreakable Vow.”
“That’s impossible,” Hermione replied. “According to Rukin’s Theory—”
“Don’t start with theory,” Seamus said sharply. “Remember he was high up with You-Know-Who. It’s hard to say what he learned.”
Hermione flicked her brows and laid the paper aside. She’d set her mouth, a sure sign she disagreed but wasn’t going to talk anymore. After a moment, she piled the scraps around her together and gave Ron a little smile.
“I’m not having any luck, and I have three essays to write before next week. If either of you talk to Remus,” her eyes darted to Harry’s, “ask him to please be careful stealing stuff from the Ministry.”
With that, she left.
Seamus hunkered down in her place and flipped through the bits. “There’s really not much to go on.”
“Anything from Wood?” Dean asked.
Harry shook his head. “I’ve asked. He’s trying, but his training schedule keeps getting in the way.” He kept studying Seamus’ head for a bit longer than necessary. “She’s good at this kind of thing, Hermione.”
Seamus met his gaze. “Theory, Harry. She’s good at theory. She has no place in the field.”
“You’re wrong,” Ron said.
“You’re saying that because she’s your girlfriend. You didn’t—” He made a face. “Just trust me, mate. She has no business messing with this.” Seamus bobbed his head towards Dean. “Dean and me and Wood, we’re the ones who went off with those Aurors for that extra training—”
“And Cormac—” Ron added.
“Yeah, but Cormac’s not with us.” A bit of red glowed in Seamus’ cheeks. “As soon as she’s done with the potions part, I want her out of harm’s way.”

19 Sept 98, Gryffindor Common Room
Ginny lit the candles on the cake and led the whole Common Room into the birthday song as Hermione sat in the middle, laughing and beaming and holding Ron’s hand.
For the first time in forever, Hermione didn’t nag about how the house-elves had had to work overtime to get the cake made. As far as Ron could tell, she’d come to terms with the fact elves did what they did, and delivering birthday pastries for students was just one of their duties.
She certainly wasn’t above eating a slice or trying to smear icing on his nose.
All in all, it became one of the least antagonistic Granger parties he could remember.
Once everyone had been treated, most of the room emptied out ’til just the remnant of the DA remained. Students from other Houses had come, too—a reunion of veterans to some extent, which was fine, until Luna said something about missing Billy Chambers, who’d died during one of the Death Eater skirmishes against the Ministry.
Trust Luna to ruin the mood.
“Did you see all these presents, Hermione?” Ron said quickly as the room fell quiet. He pushed the pile of brightly wrapped objects across the table.
She stared down at them for a moment, mind clearly elsewhere, before she picked one up mechanically and read the tag aloud. Something flat—probably a book—from Luna. She ripped open the paper to reveal, as expected, a book.
“How did you know, Luna? 1998 Guide to Magical Universities. I wish I’d had this last week. The library’s most recent edition is from 1990.”
“Daddy suggested it,” Luna replied.
Hermione rubbed the cover where a bunch of graduates flung their hats into the air repeatedly. “That will be helpful. Let’s see—this one’s from Harry.”
She worked her way through the pile until she came to Ron’s gift, a palm-sized box in a blue velvet pouch with a golden ribbon. “What can this be? More perfume?”
“Open it.” He tried not to squirm on the couch beside her. The ink wasn’t on the list of standard choices of presents for witches, and he’d been increasingly uncomfortable the more he thought about the former Potions student at the shop.
“Ink,” Hermione said and studied the bottle. “Oh, it’s Self-Illuminating Ink.”
“For seeing notes in the dark, I think. And for writing in the dark. Seemed like it might be handy.”
She hummed, produced a quill from somewhere, and dipped the nib into the bottle. She scribbled loops on the back of some of the wrapping paper with the dark grey ink. “Does it need light to charge?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think it’s for writing in the dark,” Luna said. “Let me try.” She read aloud as she wrote on a scrap, “I have to decide what to do with my life.”
The letters reformed into: “Follow your bliss.”
“See, self-illuminating.”
Ron grunted. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s interesting,” Hermione said as she loaded the quill again and pondered a piece of paper. “It’s for enlightenment, not for light.”
Ginny frowned. “That’s awful like taking directions from a book.”
Hermione wrote a line down, and the letters flipped around to read: “Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.” She sat suddenly upright.
“What did you write?” asked Ginny.
“The same thing Luna did.” Hermione held the quill out to Ron. “You try it.”
He read aloud what he got back. “’Active evil is better than passive good.’ Ridiculous.” He balled the scrap up and tossed it on the table.
“No, it’s brilliant. Don’t you see what it’s saying?”
“Yeah. That we shouldn’t have killed You-Know-Who.”
“No.” She smoothed out the paper. “It means it’s better to be actively doing something rather than just drifting along. And Luna got that she should do whatever she really loves doing.”
“And you?” prompted Ginny.
Hermione lowered her eyes. “It’s close to what Luna got.”
“It mentioned finding someone,” Ron said.
“Maybe like finding someone to apprentice to,” she said. “Someone who can teach me what I want to learn.”
“Maybe that’s why Daddy thought you needed that book,” said Luna. “To find who fans your flames.”
“That sounds like something from the agony column of Witch Weekly,” Seamus said. The boys chortled, most of the girls glowered, and Hermione pursed her lips .
Ron gave Seamus a disapproving frown and touched the back of Hermione’s hand. “If that’s the best they can offer, let’s go for a walk.”
He waited by the portal for her, and together they headed down the long way to the boathouse. As soon as they got outside in the sun of the courtyard, she linked her hand into his elbow.
“Sure you like the ink?”
“I’ve never heard of anything quite like it.”
“That was from Ophelia’s, too.”
She bobbed her head. “It’s fancy work.”
They paused for a moment to watch a Gobstones game in progress and scurried on when one of the stones careened in their direction.
“What was your appointment last Sunday?”
Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. “I talked to a professor about apprenticeships.”
“And?”
“It’s like I told you, I need to make contacts.” She stopped and peered over the stone parapet to the ground below. “About last weekend…”
Here it comes. “I told you, I’m sorry I—”
“No, I think I should apologize.” She knocked a stray feather over the edge, watched it spiral out of sight. “I made you come back. You didn’t want to.”
“You’re right, though. I might want to do something else. Improve my odds.”
She studied him. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Gonna see this through.” He propped his elbows on the parapet and looked across the lake. “Top of my form in Quidditch, doing decent in all my classes—really, I am,” he added hastily when she started to open her mouth. “I just wish….”
“What?”
He patted his fingertips on the rough stone, felt the grains poke into his skin. “I wish we could stop fighting, Hermione. Go back to how it was.”
“We’ve always fought, you know,” she said quietly.
“Bantered.”
“Same thing.”
She was focused on the grain of the granite, her face expressionless.
“Do you want to break it off?”
Her shoulders jerked. “No, I just need time, I think...” She sighed. “Ron, things happened during the war, when I was out...”
“Like what?”
“Cormac. I was there, I saw him...I saw him die, Ron.” She pursed her lips. “I wasn’t very nice to him when we were in school.”
“I think he got over that.”
“No, not just...” She looked up at him. “It’s more than just... I’m not ready to talk about it yet. It’s confusing.”
He put his arm around her waist. She held herself from him, then relaxed a little.
“Can’t you tell me anything?”
Hermione rested her head against his shoulder. “If I can’t even tell myself, Ron, how am I supposed to tell you? Every now and then things happen that remind me….” She trailed off. “I need time to sort it out.”
Ron considered. “Is that why you’re so jumpy?”
She stiffened. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ever since term started, it seems like you’ve been on edge. It can’t be just school work.”
After a moment, Hermione pulled away and leaned against the parapet. “I hadn’t realized. Maybe.” She rubbed her palms on her thighs. “I’d like a walk, Ron, but I don’t really want to do more than that right now. I hope you understand.”
So much for that. “Okay. But when you’re ready—”
“Yes, I’ll tell you when I can. Just not yet, not until I can work this out in my head.”
#*#*#*#
Attribs:
Follow your bliss. Joseph Campbell
Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames. Rumi
Active evil is better than passive good. William Blake
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Cantata for Three Voices in G Major