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Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- 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
- 8
- 9
- 10
A/N:
Kvarta – ‘I laughed so loudly my hun was scared’ – Hahah, your long-suffering hun, he does have to suffer the brunt of the fanfic rollercoaster of emotions :) ‘something like a stress reliever more than a sex life. I mean, he could run instead of having sex with same efect.’ – That cracked me up, can you imagine Sev going for a run in his frock coat and boots, jogging around the lake? ‘sounds like he is waking up from a long coma’ – I like that, their shared awakenings. ‘don't ask what it is, just ask for more’ – hahah, she sure did! ‘I'd say you are at least bit better, this chapter has more of "your usual self"’ – you are bang on, things still crazy busy but feeling better. Thank you for your thoughts once again. xx
OO- ‘Semen salve--in a store near you :)’ - *snort* actually weren’t you looking for a salve of some sort? ‘Her presence brings him back to life, and his essence brings her relief.’ – yes, it seems like they have some sort of . . . connection. ;) Hahah, Hermione was well and truly aware of what she just did. She explains herself a little more in this chapter. And, yes, so many medicinal possibilities . . . where to start? ;)
JadedFate – LOL :D
Discord_the_lunatic – I have been known to resort to evilness on occasion ;)

Chapter 9 – Up and Down
This time she turns right. Exiting his door for the second time, she makes straight for the stairs, his damp book clutched to her chest. She takes the flight two at a time, more quickly than she should, but the swell of pure elation that surges within her means she has little choice. Striding quickly along the dark, empty corridors, she is somewhat disappointed to encounter no one. Of course she could never share what has just transpired. But she feels so monumentally different, she wonders if it would be noticed.
She peers at her hands—the tight flexion of knuckles as she grasps the book. Bizarrely, there is no pain, no abnormal sensation, no tingling or prickling or throbbing or burning, just the smooth seams of the old leather cover beneath her fingertips. It is . . . inconceivable.
She has tried literally thousands of potential remedies, obsessively documenting their effects, paying through the nose for bizarre concoctions, mixing and trialling her own, spending sleepless nights in her kitchen cooking up batch after batch of hope . . . only to be devastated time and again.
She’d attempted to convince herself on so many occasions that she could feel something—some tiny alteration, some infinitesimally small shift. But they had amounted to nothing more than erroneous figments, manifestations of her, increasingly frantic, desperation to be cured.
And then this.
Semen.
The smell is overpowering but she’s unwilling to wash it off. Not yet.
It makes little sense. In fact it makes no sense. And yet the effects are irrefutable.
It was immediate—an instant relief, both stark and soothing. As though she was dipping her fingers through time, back to her old self, back all those years to when she could afford a robust engagement with the world, to explore it without repercussions, without fearing its bitter retaliation.
As more and more of her skin had been covered, she’d felt as though she was progressively grafting herself back onto this foreign body that she had come to occupy. The application to her face had been the most dramatic of all—that was the root of her expression, her communication, her joy. And she hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d done it.
He’d been shocked. Actually, that was an understatement. She’d never seen him more uncomfortable. And of course she understood why.
He’d been wanking. Again. And she’d caught him . . . And smeared his semen all over herself.
But who wouldn’t?
Who wouldn’t, after years of misery, grab a lifeline like that with both hands? Anyone would. It didn’t matter what it was or whose it was, she would do the same again. And she dearly hoped that there would be further opportunities for relief in the future—the rest of her body was now aching covetously for it.
He hadn’t been overjoyed at her request for more. In fact, he’d looked very much like he was about to run the entire time. Still, if he masturbated as regularly as he appeared to, there should be a plentiful supply.
And whilst there may have been a certain etiquette around requesting semen that she had neglected to follow, she hoped that he understood how extraordinary that moment had been for her, and how genuinely grateful she was to him. Perhaps she hadn’t communicated it well enough?
Gasping as she climbs the final flight of stairs, she resolves that she will come up with a suitable way to thank him for agreeing to provide her with something as life-enhancing as this was already promising to be.
Tentatively, she steps out into the crisp air of the Astronomy tower.
Despite the throbbing in her feet, and the protests of her lips and ears—those parts not yet blessed with a layer of Snape’s salve—she beams into an impossibly clear night sky, gazing up at the dramatic swathe of stars, scattered like a precious vein of diamonds above her head.
This was her place of rejuvenation. She had sought the solace of its lofty isolation often in her final year—to read, to contemplate, and to gain perspective on her small place in a vast and magnificent universe.
She had avoided it since returning. And although things were still far from perfect, she could feel herself reinvigorating once again, the cool railing firm and familiar beneath her restored hands, her fingers seeking out and tracing the letters of the smooth plaque—that placed here upon Dumbledore’s death.
She had lost both he as a father-figure and her own father in quick succession. Although her father was still very much alive, she was no longer able to converse with him, to seek his considered advice, to admire his insight and wisdom. In some ways, when she had removed herself from her parents’ lives, and herself from their photographs, she sometimes felt she had set in train a series of events that would eventually remove her from existence altogether . . . and without her history, without her involvement in the lives of friends or family, it would seem that when she finally came to wither away, she had never lived at all.
The smile on her face finally melts away.
Early on. When she’d still had relationships, she’d wondered how she could ever contemplate a wedding day without her parents, without her father’s strong arm to support her down the aisle. But when this had happened, this invasion of her body—when she’d had to accept that such an occasion would never be, there had been some sense of relief—one sadness that she had been able to relinquish.
And now? She tips her head back to face the stars, her face unnaturally tranquil despite the exposure. Perhaps this is the beginning of a re-emergence . . . of her materialising, conjuring some sort of worthy existence from the ashes.
She draws a breath through icy lips, the contrast extreme against those parts of her face that are stiffening slightly with his secretions but otherwise remain wonderfully untroubled. Her main concern now is her expectations. She knows that hope of this kind—of this magnitude—is extremely unwise. Past devastation had almost done her in—she’d barely had the strength to resurface. But she just can’t seem to quell it . . . to extinguish that small flicker of hope that has flared again inside her.
Unfortunately, however, it now lies in the hands of another. Someone whom she can’t even begin to fathom.
***
It lies in his hands. Like a dead Flobberworm.
Reclining against the bedhead, he flicks it again with his fingers, letting it flop onto his abdomen and roll back down to rest against his equally uninspiring balls.
It’s not the fact that an hour of tugging and stroking and squeezing has done absolutely nothing to pique its interest, but the distinct petulance with which it regards him, as though he has deliberately removed it’s only source of interest and still expected it to play, concerns and bewilders him.
Why her? And why now?
Obviously she wasn’t unattractive. But neither was she particularly healthy. She was ill . . . and it was evident. Despite this, however, even his cock was aware that something inexplicable occurred between them when they touched—in fact, a reasonably close proximity seemed to be sufficient.
Admittedly he had thought about her on and off over the years—wondering at her motivation to spend so many months with him at his worst. He hadn’t trusted that she could have been there to simply help. But, then again, he’d never fully given his trust to anyone.
She was clearly aroused by him. But she also harboured a condition that caused her to hyper-react to the vaguest stimuli . . . so perhaps that shouldn’t be considered an accurate gauge of her interest.
Indeed, her only real interest seemed to be in finding a cure for her condition. And he’d been foolish enough to offer his help—the pathetic draw of heroism, of being the hope for yet another hopeless cause.
And then this.
He flicks his cock again, watching it slither down despondently into the crease of his inner thigh.
This study in flaccidity was apparently the ‘cure.’
He snorts with disdain. It had been utterly useless for years. He’d even given up on hating himself for it. And now? Now that it had been inspired to resurface, promising so much, driving her to smear the fruits of its brief labour over her face no less, conjuring that rare smile—a glow of pure happiness—it was going to pull its head back in and fuck them both up.
He flicks the sheet over himself and, with a loud sigh, tunnels a hand into his hair, grasping the roots tightly in agitation.
He hadn’t promised her anything. He doesn’t owe her anything. He is not responsible for her. He can simply tell her ‘no’ . . . that it is completely inappropriate—which it is. She wants his come, for fuck’s sake!
She would just have to learn to live with disappointment. Fuck . . . hadn’t he spent his life having to endure the same?
***
“Good morning, Professor.”
Yes. Absolutely fucking spiffing. He remains facing his door, wondering if he can get away with pretending he hasn’t heard her.
“I hope you slept well.”
Translation: I hope you made that come I asked for . . . and perhaps managed a bit of sleep too.
He turns away from her and takes a couple of strides before she catches up to him, touching his arm.
“Look!”
He looks.
She has her sleeves rolled up to expose her forearms; her hands are glove-free. She is still beaming.
He deflates a little further.
“It’s still working!”
Joy beyond measure. He manages to raise an eyebrow in barely restrained exuberance.
“Normally this is the hardest thing to do,” she continues excitedly. “But look . . .”
She reaches forward and grasps his hand in both of hers, sliding her fingers up under his tightly buttoned sleeve. He frowns. Doesn’t she realise it’s buttoned for a reason—to keep people out?
“See, I can touch you without . . . without flinching . . . it just feels . . . normal.”
He scans her face. She looks different. Healthier? She certainly seems happier. And her fingers continue to trace the contours of his hand, trekking over his knuckles, skimming lightly over his palm, brushing his fingertips. And then he feels it. He stiffens . . . everywhere.
She pulls away, sensing the change in his demeanour.
“There is something I need to attend to,” he mutters.
“Of course, I’m sorry to have kept you.”
She steps aside to allow him to proceed, but instead he turns on his heel and returns the two steps to his door, unlocking it with a brisk wave before stepping through and slamming it shut.
This time she flinches.
- 8
- 9
- 10
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete