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An Accidental Affair Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 29007 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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.

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A/N: Oracle – ‘It might be the best thing I've read in years’ – I’m humbled. You know how highly I regard your opinion and your writing xx ‘Just to satisfy my word-clit (which is in my brain and not subject to bruising or overuse, so it's safe to liberally partake)’ – bahahahah! Love it! I couldn’t decide if it should be 'cuntiness' or 'cuntliness'. I think I like yours better. ‘Unless he's got the blown up bits of the book in there for charred reference.’ – hmmmm, didn’t think of that. They could probably do with some charred referencing as there does seem to be a bit of artistic licence being employed here ;)

Chapter 8 – Hazarda afero

“Am I supposed to guess what’s in there?”

Hermione swivelled around awkwardly on the couch until she was sitting upright. She was careful to keep the hanky blanket clutched tightly to her chest, although she wasn’t quite sure why she bothered as he’d already seen her sprawled naked on the floor of her shower, covered in vomit. There couldn’t be a whole lot of feminine mystique left to preserve after that.

Snape took a dining chair and brought it over until he was seated before her. She realised this was the first evidence she’d observed of him possessing more than one set of clothing. There wasn’t even a hint of troll bowel-movement about him. Instead, what drifted forth was the usual blend of peppermint and sandalwood, both fresh and masculine. She doubted the aroma she contributed to the increasingly turbid air between them was quite as pleasant. As he stretched his long legs out, resting the tin on his thighs, the immaculate cut of his clothing had her self-consciously dragging her fingers through her knotted locks, wishing she’d crawled off the couch earlier to scrape off some of the rankness.

Intimidated by his proximity and the intensity of his gaze, Hermione eyed the tin nervously. This was all a bit serious wasn’t it?

Without a word he unscrewed the lid and handed it to her. Inside were five small phials.

“Liqueurs?”

It wasn’t a particularly funny joke—a fact unequivocally verified by Snape’s severe expression.

“One is a Sobriety potion.” Snape’s eyes didn’t leave hers.

Hermione stared at him before frowning. “It’s a bit late for that don’t you think? You might have given it to me last night.”

“Would you have taken it?”

Her response was immediate, “No.”

Snape inclined his head. He’d clearly been more than aware of that.

“The second is a hangover cure.”

Hermione chewed her lip, regarding the collection as it rattled slightly on her lap. Was she trembling?

“They rest are detoxification potions. They’ll absorb the alcohol from your system with little withdrawal. They’re designed to be taken over the course of three days.”

Hermione’s eyes gradually returned to his as realisation dawned upon her.

“You brought these with you yesterday.”

He paused before responding, “Yes.”

“Why would you bring a collection of hangover potions to someone’s house for lunch?”

He clasped his hands together but didn’t respond.

Hermione set the tin beside her on the couch before fixing him with a glare. “With all due respect, Professor, but don’t you think that’s a bit fucking rude? I mean, is that your usual response when someone invites you to their house? I admit that this might be a relatively modest abode compared with what you’re used to but this is my home. I’ve invited you here, cooked you lunch using money I couldn’t really spare and you turn up with nothing but a conceited sneer and a tin of fucking hangover potions? I was fucking sober when you arrived!”

He remained absolutely still, returning her gaze.

“What if I’d opened this delightful gift as soon as you’d arrived?”

“I’d have informed you that it was to be opened later.”

“And you just fucking assumed that I would need them?”

That same inscrutable look, head slightly tilted as if she were answering her own questions. She was fucking furious.

“How insulting were you actually intending to be? Turning up here with a solution to some supposed problem—as though I’d asked you to help me. I didn’t ask you for anything!”

He sat back in his seat, apparently unconcerned by her mounting rage.

She picked up the tin and shoved it back at him. “As I said before. I don’t need your fucking charity. I have been perfectly fine without it all these years and I’ll continue to muddle along without it into the future, thank you very much.”

He simply sat with the tin in his hand, watching her.

She continued to seethe, her headache worsening by the second.

“What if you invited me to lunch and I turned up with a gift especially for you? Tied up with a big bow.”

He appraised her with a look of such considered patience that it pissed her off even more.

“And when I arrived you said, ‘Miss Granger, how lovely of you to be so considerate, what do we have here?’ and I said, ‘Well actually that’s something for later’. And you said, ‘Really? What could you have prepared that would be so appropriate for this occasion?’, and I said, ‘Well Professor, it’s an anti-cunt potion that I’ve been working on. I just thought that when you start being too much of a cunt, as is clearly inevitable, you might want to take it.’ How do you think would that go down?”

He remained silent as she clenched the blanket between her fists, on the verge of tears.

“Are you finished?”

She swallowed hard before dropping her forehead to her knees. “Yes.” Her voice was a muffled sob.

“My father was an alcoholic.” His voice was low and tight. “I grew up with his moods. He vacillated daily between apathy and violence with little in between. I despised him for his lack of control and the impact that his drinking had on us all. But in the end, I didn’t blame him for the way he was, he was under a curse of sorts. Still, I wished that someone would help him. A friend. A relative. That they would turn up one day with a gift like this. But there was no one. At least no one ever concerned enough about him, or about us, to do it. I promised myself then that if I ever had the opportunity to do this for someone else I would.”

Hermione let the tears come. The shame and embarrassment were bad enough. The truth of her situation was worse. But his genuine concern seemed to shatter the remaining barriers of denial she’d built around herself to cope. It stole her breath away.

It’s not personal ‘Mione, she told herself as she gasped into her knees. He’s fulfilling a promise he made to himself as a child. She wasn’t sure if that thought made her feel better or worse. Was she just some pathetic cause he’d suddenly adopted to try to make up for his miserable childhood?

In the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Her telling of her own circumstances, now transcribed on the parchment at her feet, was evidence enough that her life couldn’t get much worse.

Rubbing her hands over her face, imagining that she looked more like a Harpy Hag than a human being at that point, she fixed her watery gaze upon him.

“Which is the hangover cure?”

“Black stopper.”

She opened the small vial with trembling fingers and threw it back in one gulp. At least that was something she was good at.

“I’m guessing the detox is red?”

He looked at her for a long moment before nodding. “However, you need to be aware that if and when you decide to take them, there will be consequences. You are unlikely to continue to crave alcohol and the withdrawal effects should be minimal as these have been brewed from the purest of ingredients. But alcohol is a sedative, a depressant. When you relinquish its effects, the world can become overwhelming. The sensations and emotions that have been dampened all this time will return at heightened levels.”

Hermione took in his concerned frown, the long fingers interlaced in his lap.

She wiped her nose on the blanket, then tried to gather together what tenuous threads of dignity might remain. “I realise now that you had nothing to gain from this offer except a mouthful of abuse. And I apologise to you for that. However, I still think you could have handled things a little more discreetly.”

He shrugged. “Alcoholics prefer denial. They’ll keep the truth hidden at all costs to avoid being confronted with the reality of their problems. And I see no value in reinforcing the delusion. That’s why I chose to be upfront about it. I refuse to engage in that sort of subterfuge.”

Fine words from a former fucking spy.

Hermione nodded wearily. She hated being called an alcoholic. It was a word that should be reserved for the old men in pubs propping up bar stools, not the daughter of dentists, the brightest witch of her age.

Still, this was probably the smartest thing she’d done in a very long time. Without another thought, she pulled the stopper and swallowed the bitter liquid.

She’d purchased quite a few hangover potions from the apothecary in the past but none had ever worked quite so quickly and effectively as the one brewed by Snape’s own hand. Her stomach, which had been squirming like maggoty haggis had suddenly stilled, the Bludger thumping about inside her head had fortunately found an escape route, and the murky fog that had become an almost permanent fixture in her mind seemed to be lifting at a disconcerting rate. And now she was really, really fucking hungry.

“I’d like to change my mind about your offer of breakfast,” she said meekly. “I’d very much like to partake . . . After a quick shower?”

Snape gave a single nod and stood, sweeping the chair back to the table in one motion before collecting the bag from the table and disappearing into the kitchen.

Clutching the blanket around her, Hermione scurried to the bathroom for what she could only describe as the most blissful shower experience of her entire life.

***

“These might be the best eggs and bacon I’ve ever eaten,” Hermione said enthusiastically, tucking into the impressive plateful that Snape had placed before her.

He chewed with careful precision, taking occasional sips from a mug of black coffee that was making Hermione almost swoon with its impossibly intense aroma.

“Precision cooking is my occupation. I would hope I could do justice to a little protein,” he rumbled into his mug.

Hermione watched him with mounting intrigue. He’d been absolutely right about the detoxification potion. She suddenly felt as though the film of seedy despair that she’d managed to cover everything with, deadening herself and cloaking the world around her, had dissolved—been washed away. It had happened so suddenly and so effectively that she was nervous to think what two more vials of detoxification might do to her.

As she followed Snape’s graceful movements, she marvelled at how a man who had appeared so starkly black and white only an hour before, could now be infused with such surprisingly rich depth. She’d always considered him positively ghostly but now, with her newfound clarity, she noticed the warm glow to his skin; his lips, once anaemic were now a dusky red, even his black eyes possessed startling motes of amber—the blue-black shine to his hair, the soft pink of his hands, veins like rivers coursing over them. It was like she’d gained a whole new sense and it was opening up a world of perceptions and insights previously beyond her.

He caught her staring. She quickly took a sip of tea before muttering, “I can absolutely confirm that you’ve done this breakfast justice. One hundred percent.”

He frowned. Did she sound abnormal? Was she gushing? She was finding it difficult to judge. She’d been operating inside such a limited mindset, her sensations and emotions washed out for so long, that with the veil suddenly lifted and her prior behaviours receding, she was concerned that she might come across as slightly bizarre. Still, her behaviour probably couldn’t get any worse than sitting in his lap and vomiting all over him.

She really hoped she didn’t come across as totally unhinged. She didn’t want to drive him away. But maybe now that he’d helped her, he’d done what he’d come here to do, there was no reason for them to see each other again. Except, of course, for the book. That blasted book. That book that she was becoming increasingly grateful for.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

It was all she could think to say. She really meant ‘Thank you for everything’ but the lump in her throat was threatening to ruin her lovely meal.

He lifted an eyebrow in acknowledgement before placing another forkful delicately into his mouth.

She stared at her plate for a long time, waiting for the lump to recede.

“I read your latest chapter.”

Merlin’s Balls ‘Mione, I thought you’d had enough of fucking everything up!

He chewed slowly before giving a nod.

“It was beautifully written.”

Another small dismissive shrug.

“It seemed very personal.”

Nooooo, don’t go there.

“Weren’t you concerned that it might be too revealing, that people might judge you by it?”

He finished his mouthful before taking another sip of coffee.

“It’s only a story. And no one’s going to read it.”

“I did.”

He shrugged again.

“Don’t you care about me judging you?”

He gave her a curious look before picking up his napkin and wiping his mouth.

“I think you’ve already made up your mind about me, Miss Granger,” he said, before standing and carrying his plate from the room.

She stared after him. He couldn’t be further from the mark. She had absolutely no idea what to make of him anymore.

***

Fingering.

Hermione stared at the single word scrawled on her parchment. She felt nothing—nothing for that particular topic at least. She did, however, feel a desperate need for something else. Something she had never done before but something that she desired so intensely in that moment that she could hardly sit still.

He was beside her again, coat off, sleeves rolled up to expose surprisingly muscular forearms.

All that stirring. And chopping. And fingering. ‘Mione enough!

The effects of the detoxification potion seemed to be increasing exponentially. She felt a bizarre combination of relief, gratitude, shame and disgust, combined with an intense longing that made her previous mental incursions toward him seem positively chaste.

“What do you think about including something a little less . . . mainstream,” she ventured, focusing intently upon her page.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, maybe something a little . . . kinky?”

He paused in his writing. “I see no reason why not.”

He might see a reason why not in a minute.

“Okay.”

She pretended she didn’t notice him watching her. Shit. How was she going to broach the next part? There was only one thing for it. Gryffindor courage. Gryffindor courage. Gryffindor courage.

“Have you ever spanked anyone before?”

She winced inwardly, wondering if she was going to explode with embarrassment.

“Yes.”

Oh. Blunt admission. No explosions. All good so far.

Hermione thought about those muscular forearms. She couldn’t quite make them fit with his erotic narrative. There he is, rolling around in the starlight on the moss with his lover when he suddenly starts laying into her backside. Nope, it didn’t work. There was definitely more going on with him than he was letting on.

So now what? She watched the neat flowing strokes of his quill as he continued to fill his page, before allowing her eyes to rest upon his lap. It was quite a big lap. She’d sat in it. But unfortunately couldn’t quite remember how it felt. Would she ever be allowed on there again?

Suddenly he huffed and dropped his quill. “You’re going to have to ask me.”

Shit. He’d read her incredibly well-disguised thoughts – not.

She drew in a deep breath. It wasn’t the first excruciating thing she’d said to him and, no doubt, it wouldn’t be the last.

“Will you spank me? Please?”

Her face was instantly on fire.

“Why?”

“Because I want to write about it.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“No. Because I think it’ll make me feel better.”

“I did warn you about the effects of the potion.”

“I know.”

He considered her for an excruciatingly long time. “Can’t you just make something up?”

“I’ve never done it before. I’d prefer my writing to be . . . authentic.”

“Like the classroom scene?” he muttered drily.

Hermione decided to ignore that quip.

“It’s one less chapter you’ll have to write.”

He definitely looked more interested. “You’ll write the whole thing?”

She’d write a whole fucking series on spanking if he would just get on with it.

“Of course, as long as you make it sufficiently . . . inspiring.”

He tossed the quill and parchment to the floor. “Jeans on or off?”

Didn't he know? Surely it didn't take a legilimens to work out what the answer was going to be.

"Off."

"Jeans and knickers off," he commanded, rolling up his right sleeve even further.

Oh Baby!

She could already feel herself giving the ‘wet woman’ a run for her money.
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An Accidental Affair *Complete*

An Accidental Affair Complete