Now that classes are back in session, I won't be updating as frequently (ugh, grad school). My goal is to publish at least one chapter a week though. As always, the inspiration is from Rowling's work—anything familiar came from her expertise. I hope you enjoy and thank you bunches for all your follows, faves, and comments. Every notification brings a massive smile to my face.
The week after her fateful brewing session with Snape passed in a haze for Hermione. She kept replaying the moment in her mind, particularly his pulling away from her and covering his face. Was he disgusted with himself? With her? Was it shame at their behavior? Without having seen his expression, she was lost for a reason. She had certainly enjoyed the encounter and was, if she was being honest with herself, eagerly anticipating her next shift with the sullen professor. By the end of the week, however, he had still not contacted her to work in his dungeon. Besides being more than a little hurt by his avoidance of her, she was concerned about the pecuniary aspect of her position. McGonagall had promised her that she would be paid a flat rate per week regardless of how many hours she worked (anticipating, perhaps, that her coworker would hardly let Hermione do anything). Nevertheless, she was worried that if she went several weeks without doing anything, the administration would assume he was well enough to resume his own duties and dismiss her.
It was, therefore, with considerable anticipation that she approached his desk after class.
"Professor?" She asked cautiously. She pressed her books closer to her chest as she watched him pretend to rummage beneath his desk.
"Hm?" He seemed distracted, but not irritated, which was a good sign.
"Do you have any work that needs done? I haven't heard from you since…since I assisted with the Wolfsbane last week."
He paused and she could almost feel him frantically making an excuse or coming up with some kind of busy work for her to do.
"I haven't anything at the moment. Perhaps…" he popped his head out from under the desk, flushed. His eyes carefully avoided hers. She raised an eyebrow as she waited for him to answer.
"Grading, perhaps," he said hurriedly.
"Grading?" She repeated. Did he really trust her with grading other students' work? How thrilling!
"Yes, erm…" he paused, "come down here after your dinner. Say, seven? You can rate some first year potions. I have a meeting with Professor Sprout at six thirty, so you'll be working down here alone."
She twisted her mouth slightly at his sly maneuver. It was clear to see that he was going out of his way to avoid her.
"That sounds fine," she said finally.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, standing up, "I have business to attend to in my office."
Hermione nodded and meandered out of the room. Was he really not going to address the hippogriff in the room? They had kissed the week prior—passionately, even!—and he had nothing to say? She pressed her lips together tightly in irritation and headed to the Great Hall for lunch.
On her way in, she was accosted by a frantic Dean.
"Have you seen Seamus?" He demanded. She blinked rapidly.
"No, I haven't," she paused, "he wasn't in class, was he? I knew something seemed odd."
"No, he wasn't, and he wasn't in the Tower this morning either. His bed wasn't slept in. It's unlike him to do something like this. Even when he does skip classes or stay out with a girl, he always tells me about it first." Hermione considered him thoughtfully. He seemed unusually concerned.
Hermione momentarily contemplated her hectic third year and how often she had ended up missing class because of her punishing schedule.
"Perhaps he fell asleep somewhere else in the castle? Or he's in the library?" She suggested. Dean rolled his eyes.
"I can't imagine Seamus napping somewhere else in the castle, Hermione. Unless he was with a girl." It was remarkable, she thought, how she was suddenly seeing Snape's mannerisms in the student body. Dean was sneering at her.
"It was just a suggestion," she responded with a huff. He ignored it and went in to the Hall. She followed closely, choosing a spot next to Ginny.
"Gin, have you seen Seamus? Dean seems awfully worried." She whispered. Ginny looked baffled, "No, I haven't. He's probably hanging around the castle somewhere. He's seemed really stressed lately."
Hermione shrugged, "well, whatever it was, he skipped Snape's class."
Her friend frowned, "Weird. Snape didn't even seem to notice that his class was a bit short."
Hermione bit her tongue, knowing precisely why Snape wasn't paying attention. It was clear that he was still dwelling on their encounter—though whether it was positively or negatively, she couldn't even begin to say. He had been too occupied in avoiding her to notice that his class was smaller than usual.
"You have a free period after this, right?" Ginny asked, ladling gravy over her roast beef. Hermione nodded, her mouth full of potato. She swallowed hard.
"Yeah, why?"
"You should come down to the Quidditch pitch with me. I'm going to do some drills with our new beater." Hermione started to object, but Ginny cut her off.
"You've been holed up in the library for ages. It would do you good to get some fresh air."
She realized with a start that her friend was right. Since her evening with the Potions professor, she had been hiding in the library by herself. Gratefully, she nodded to Ginny, "That would be great. I'd love to come with you."
They finished the meal in silence, both listening with increasing worry as Dean fretted over his best friend. When they had finished with their meal, they walked wordlessly out to the field. Ginny, seeing the new teammate, ran ahead with her broom and box of balls. Hermione lingered after her, gazing out at the nearby Forbidden Forest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a small movement. She turned toward it and saw what appeared to be a foot poking out from under a bush. Her eyebrows knit together as she hurried towards it.
"Seamus!" Upon arrival, she found the young man, pale as parchment. Feeling his neck, she could detect the faintest heartbeat.
"Ginny!" She screamed. The redhead darted over.
"Bloody hell, it's Seamus!" She exclaimed. Hermione nodded and began to pull him out from under the bush by the ankles.
"He needs to go to Pomfrey immediately," She declared. She quickly levitated him and began a hasty retreat toward the castle, Ginny close behind. They came across a number of students in the hall, who appeared stupefied at the sight of the school nerd (and resident student war hero) and the Gryffindor Quidditch captain floating a seemingly-dead seventh-year through the halls.
"Madame Pomfrey, it's an emergency!" Hermione exclaimed, pushing the door open with her foot. Seeing Seamus floating lifelessly in the air, the older witch sprung into action.
"Through here, through here," she bustled them into a small room in the corner outfitted with a narrow metal bed and small table. Hermione gently placed him on the bed. Without a glance at the two women behind her, Pomfrey took his pulse, clucking at its faint beat. She twisted her mouth and awkwardly placed her hand on the juncture of his thighs. Ginny looked over at Hermione with a raised eyebrow at the unexpected movement.
"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Hermione asked, her arms crossed. Madame Pomfrey nodded her head.
"Did you find the source of his injury?" She asked directly, turning to look them in the eyes.
"No, we thought it best we get him to you immediately."
"That's good. I'm afraid there's a monster loose on the grounds. Young Mr. Finnegan is the third to come in since the term began with this kind of injury."
The Gryffindors exchanged cautious looks.
"What sort of injury would that be, Madame Pomfrey?" Ginny asked.
"A dreadful one. I can't go into particulars. Miss Granger, could you run and fetch Professor Snape? I'm going to need his brewing skills with these injuries."
Hermione nodded and headed down to the dungeon while Ginny remained in the hospital wing.
"Professor Snape?" Hermione didn't even consider the possibility that he would be in class; fortunately for her, he was quite alone in his office. The fire danced merrily as he hunched over his desk, his pen scratching angrily on parchment.
"Yes?" His tone was less harsh than she had expected. Almost…gentle.
"Madame Pomfrey needs you. Seamus has been injured."
A look of alarm crossed his taciturn features. He followed her out the door and again, she caught the scent of him in her nostrils. Today there was an additional note—something almost spicy. Clove? She couldn't identify the source of the new odor.
They hurried wordlessly up to Pomfrey's tower. Upon seeing Seamus, the blood drained from his face, making it appear even more sallow than usual.
"Another one, Poppy?" He said quietly. She nodded, her gaze still locked on her patient. She was spooning a violet liquid into his mouth, massaging his throat to ensure it was fully swallowed.
"I'm nearly out of the blood replenishing potion you made last month and I can't seem to find it in any of the usual places."
"I'll start it immediately. Do you need anything else?" Ginny looked over at Hermione, her eyebrows raised. It was evident that she was surprised at his helpfulness.
"No, my stores of everything else are fine at the moment, Severus."
Snape turned to return to the dungeon. His steps on the stairs were quick and light. Hermione followed after him.
"Professor, could I help with the potion? From what I've read, it's a very complicated one."
"I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself, Miss Granger," he said softly. He cast a sideways glance at her, noting her crestfallen expression.
"However," he paused, looking straight ahead. The color returned rapidly to his cheeks, "if you insist, you may join me. Have you any more classes this afternoon?"
"No," she replied quickly, "yours is my last one on Thursdays."
He nodded curtly. She tried to keep her excitement at bay, knowing he'd instantly be able to sense it. Nevertheless, his expression lightened and she could tell he had felt her turbulent emotions.
They began the potion immediately after arriving in the dungeon. They worked together in companionable silence for almost a half hour. She luxuriated in the sensation of the two of them laboring together in such a way. It was dissimilar to anything she had ever experienced. Unlike Harry or Ron, he did not rely on her to do the bulk of the work; rather, his expertise and her knowledge made them excellent partners. They worked in tandem, their movements flowing together seamlessly. She had a momentary vision of the two of them working in a different laboratory; perhaps, she considered briefly, a home laboratory, making potions for household use. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred to her as teenage nonsense.
"Professor?" She asked tentatively. He inclined his head inquisitively at her.
"Do you know what's going on? Three of the seventh year boys have been hospitalized? And they're all desperately in need of blood?"
He paused for a long moment, "They have been attacked."
"Well, yes, but…by what?"
He stared at her for what felt like an eternity. She squirmed under his intense gaze before resuming his chopping.
"They have been…castrated," he said haltingly. She looked at him, mouth agape.
"Castrated?"
"Yes, that's what I said."
"But…why?"
He looked her again, a smile twitching at the edge of his lips. He cocked an eyebrow.
"For diabolical purposes, I'm sure," he said dryly.
She shook her head at her pile of roots, knowing he was being deliberately obtuse. She had a suspicion—a vague one, but a suspicion nonetheless—that Snape knew what was happening and the identity of the perpetrator. Still, she didn't want to suspect him—perhaps, she considered, her mixed emotions toward the professor were clouding her judgment.
He emptied the last of the ingredients into the cauldron with a brisk clap.
"Needs to simmer for an hour and a half before the next step. Tea?" He looked remarkably cheerful. She nodded her assent and followed him into his office.
"Professor Snape?" She asked. She seated herself on the far edge of the couch, away from the professor.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" He busied himself with filling the kettle.
"I'd like to propose an experiment."
"A potions experiment?" He swung the kettle over the fire and turned to her expectantly.
"No…a different one. I've been thinking about the mental connection I instigated a few months back. I'm wondering if Occlumency could...help."
He looked at her thoughtfully, "That's an interesting idea. If you were to use Occlumency against me, it might put a stop to the endless barrage of thoughts and feelings that radiate from you."
Was he laughing at her? She couldn't tell. She decided to proceed as if he were serious.
"Yes. Well. That's the idea. Anyway, do you think you could teach me?"
"Your NEWTS are in the spring, and you want to take on another subject? As I'm sure Mr. Potter has informed you, Occlumency is a very difficult task. It requires immense mental and emotional strength. With all your studying," he gesticulated vaguely before returning his fidgety hands to his lap, "Are you sure you'd be up to the task?"
She flushed hotly, "If you're implying I can't do it—" He cut her off.
"I'm implying nothing. I'm merely suggesting that you may find it too strenuous an addition to your workload," he said coolly.
"I think I can handle it." She responded, her voice defiant.
He regarded her for a long moment. They both heard the water begin to simmer in the kettle. He pulled it from the fire and poured it gently in the pot, submerging the tea bags.
"No leaves?" She asked with a slight smile. She could hear him chuckle in the back of his throat.
"I'll leave those to Sybill," he responded with a wry smile. He replaced the kettle on its hook next to the fire and replaced his hands in his lap.
There was a long silence as they waited for the tea to steep.
"About last week…" she said cautiously. She watched his face intently, but it showed no change. He continued to look at her with that enigmatic look on his face.
"A misstep on my behalf," he said softly.
"A misstep? So…you regret it?"
He paused before replying, "I did not say that I regretted my actions, merely that I should not have…embraced you in such a way. It was highly inappropriate for me to do that to you." He looked away from her and she saw a pinkness creep slowly up his neck.
"I don't regret it," she said. Her voice was soft, but firm. He cast her a sharp look.
"Miss Granger…" He seemed to choke on his words, turning his attention to the tea. He silently poured her a cup and handed it to her, the delicate china rattling noisily in its saucer. Snape didn't finish his thought, sipping his tea silently. She watched him, knowing the tea must be scalding his tongue. Like him, she said nothing. It was the most awkward tea she had ever drunk, with both of them pretending not to notice the other while they watched each other out of the corner of their eyes. Finally, he spoke.
"A relationship would be impossible, not to mention…the height of impropriety."
She looked down at her tea, watching it swirl in the cup. She hadn't said anything about a relationship—but his comment made her wonder. Was he interested in her in more than a physical way? And what exactly was the nature of her feelings toward him? Somehow she still hadn't quite figured them out.
"I'm quite aware of that," She eventually responded. Hermione looked at him steadily. They watched each other warily and she thought with a mental laugh how ridiculous they would have looked had anyone walked in unexpectedly. Both sat at the far edges of the sofa, clutching tea as though it were a life preserver, staring at each other with highly charged gazes.
The beeping of his little timer startled them out of their staring contest.
"The potion," he mumbled to himself. He rose awkwardly and she followed him into the classroom. Silently they completed the next step, adding piles of finely sliced herbs (precisely rolled and cut in a chiffonade, as the instructions dictated). She watched as he delicately waved his wand over the steaming cauldron, his incantations silent. The potion transformed from pale lavender to ebony to scarlet. It was utterly mesmerizing.
He set his wand aside, steadily avoiding her gaze.
"I think…I can handle the rest alone," he said quietly. She took the hint and prepared to leave. An idea struck her.
"Professor?" He turned to look at her with anticipation and with no notice, she flew into his arms. She flung her own arms around his neck, eagerly pressing her lips to his. He was unresponsive for a brief moment before taking control. His arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer to him. His tongue gently pushed her lips apart before beginning a slow, tortuous exploration of her mouth. Their tongues danced, sparred, played with each other. She moaned softly against his mouth. He turned and pressed her against one of the rickety lab tables. She rested one hip on it, then the other, seating herself on it. She briefly thought of Myrtle's suggestion that she have sex with (she could hardly bring herself to use the word fuck even in a thought) the professor on one of the tables. Still, the thought was tempting.
He was leaning against her knees, his arms wrapped around her. Without thinking she spread them, crossing her ankles daintily behind his back, pulling him closer to her with her thighs. His hands trailed down her back, feeling the softness of her sweater. She mimicked his actions, smoothing her own hands over his cashmere clothing. The scent of him filled her nostrils so fully and completely that she couldn't sense anything else. He pulled his lips from hers only to trail them down the silken column of her neck.
"This is wrong," he murmured against her flesh. She arched her neck into his lips, making a soft moue of pleasure.
"But it feels so right," she breathed. His hands crept up her ribcage, thumbing the hard line of her bra's underwire beneath her sweater. His own actions seemed to give him pause. He tore his mouth from her skin and buried his forehead into her shoulder.
"This is wrong," he repeated raggedly, "we have to cease this…ridiculous behavior."
She stroked his hair silently, her chin resting against his head. She noticed with vague amusement that his hair wasn't as greasy as she thought it would be. Oh, it didn't feel overly clean, but the impression of poor hygiene was from the fine texture of his hair. Where hers was thick and nearly coarse, tumbling down her back in a mass of unrestrained curls and—she admitted—a jumble of snarls, his hair was the texture of spun silk. She decided that he needed volumizing products to diminish the look of grease. Hermione caught herself wondering what it would be like to wash his hair, their wet bodies pressed together as blazing hot water poured around them—
She, or rather he, stopped her daydream. He pulled away from her, his hands rubbing his face briskly as if to restore sensation to it. She collected herself, pulling her knees together and yanking her skirt down to cover her thighs. She slipped off the table and walked over to him slowly.
"Professor…?" She asked hesitantly. He gave a harsh laugh.
"You might as well call me Severus now that I've had my tongue down your throat."
She blushed hotly, "Severus. It was my fault this time, there's no need to blame yourself."
He turned and looked at her, his expression one of disbelief, "I'm the teacher. I should have stopped you.'
"I'm glad you didn't," She said, staring insolently into his eyes. He was clearly at a loss for words at her response. Although she didn't have the same link with him that he had with her, his thoughts were as clear to her as if he had spoken them aloud. He was glad she had attacked him with such ferocity or he wouldn't have responded in such a way.
He adopted a business-like air.
"So, Occlumency lessons. Thursday afternoons?" He raised his eyebrows at her. She cocked one at him, regarding him thoughtfully.
"Yes, I think Thursday afternoons would work well," she responded in the same coolly detached voice. He nodded briskly.
"Well, I'll be off then," she said casually. He nodded, evidently trusting himself to say nothing. He stayed rooted to his spot.
"Have a good afternoon…Severus."
She left him there, in the dungeon, his thoughts swirling around him like a tornado. Hers were little better. Later, she observed that he skipped the evening meal, his absence as glaringly obvious to her as a missing tooth in a child's smile.
She was too distracted to contribute significantly to the dinner conversation; Ginny, assuming her elder companion was still agitated over the earlier afternoon's events left her to her own devices.
Hermione, grateful for the solitude, retired early and spent her night tossing and turning with her body aflame. She could still feel his gentle caresses and wondered feverishly what those exquisite hands would feel like on her bare skin. She was determined to find out.
Soon.