The most intelligent man she knew. That's how she would describe Severus Snape. She was enamoured with Professor Snape, yet when asked to describe the man all she had was 'the most intelligent man she knew.' Surely, that wasn't enough.
Is 'enamoured' the right word? Hermione considered the term as she understood it. The term indicated love, admiration, captivation. Admiration and captivation, she felt comfortable with. Love… certainly not. But, Gods, the Potion's Master was such a presence.
She sat on her knees, in the middle of the plush carpet located in the sleeping quarters of her new staff chambers at Hogwarts. She needed to accept and move past her feelings. She knew the professor did not return her feelings. She was aware of his devotion to Lily Evans during the war and now, five years later, had seen nothing to suggest any change.
Hermione Granger was the newly appointed teacher of muggle studies at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was simultaneously immensely proud and disgusted with her new role. She loved the school and since her post-war familial difficulties truly felt at home there. Her pride was rooted in the privilege of being given the opportunity to contribute to shaping the young magical minds of the future; however, she was disgusted at the nepotism that enabled her to attain the position.
It was late August, 2003 and she was due to begin her teaching career in a few short weeks, yet her she was: sat on her knees; bare as the day she was born; still bleeding from self-inflicted wounds; tears streaming down her face; breathing deeply; trying to calm her mind and trying to move past her obsession with the raven-haired war hero. Clearly, she had achieved this position due to favouritism of former teachers.
Gods, get it together. He can't save you. It's not his job. It was your job though. You should have saved them. Everything you touch turns to hell. You absolute imposter. You are weak and wasteful. Do it; just end it….
Dear Gods, you're weak. If you can't do it just get up and clean yourself up.
With blank eyes and robotic movements, she obeyed.
Her wounds stung in the shower; she relished the pain. She washed herself and stepped gingerly out of the shower, averting her eyes from the mirror. She made certain never to catch a glimpse of her nude body. She meticulously healed the wounds then dried herself and slipped into a silk slip. Whore.
She led in her bed staring up at the canopy. Her mind wandered back to Professor Snape. It was more than his intelligence though. His raw magical power she had seen for herself. She shifted and thought more about him. His was a gifted potioneer. He could teach her so much. A soft sigh escaped her lips. She pictured him labouring over a cauldron and she was on her knees again in the corner. In her mind's eye, he ignored her completely. He focused on her work and muttered to himself. In her fantasy, and in her bed, Hermione's nipples crinkled and she reached down to test her wetness. Fuck, so wet. I want to cum.
In the fantasy, Professor Snape's eyes snapped to hers. She blushed and lowered her eyes, but did not remove her fingers. He abandoned his work and turned to face her.
"Crawl to me," he commanded. She complied.
"On your back," he commanded. She complied.
"Spread your legs," he commanded. She complied. He reached down to touch her there.
In her bed, Hermione fanatically rubbed her clit. She panted and moaned as the professor reached down. She felt a need come upon her and her most intimate area became sensitive. She had to stop touching herself. Yet another secret shame. She was incapable of sexual satisfaction. She was half a woman. She couldn't stop her nightly explorations despite her lack of success. Gods, you're completely useless.
Hermione drifted off to sleep.