"What did you say?" she asked breathless.
"Our drinks are ready," he repeated leaning forward to turn off the taps.
It took Hermione a few minutes and a few more deep breaths to regain her composure. She wasn't this person; she wasn't someone that just let strange men kiss her without a damn good reason (former Professor or not!).
Except, she was.
She knew what was going to happen if she stayed. He'd given her every single opportunity to leave - hell, she still had the opportunity to leave, if she wished - and she'd stayed. Because she knew what was going to happen. And she wanted it to happen. And he did, as well.
She was back on her knees facing him when he reached forward and removed their drinks from their spots under the fountain. She sat back when he offered her one of the glasses, and simply watched him for a moment.
She was trying to remember a time when she found him attractive before the conference and she was coming up with nothing. The last time she'd seen him, she was nineteen, the trials had just ended, and she was in the middle of a crisis of conscience with Viktor. She'd literally never thought of him outside of a professional setting.
There was an attraction back then, perhaps, she acknowledged, but it was an attraction to the whole picture. The man was gifted, there was no other word she could think of to describe him. No doubt, the Ministry of Magic wanted his brain on the ninth floor of the building; she wondered if they'd even had the courage to ask. She sincerely hoped so - perhaps he would allow her to view the Pensive memory.
He was powerful - with the death of both Voldemort and Dumbledore, there was a very good chance that he was the most powerful wizard alive at the moment - and she'd be a liar if she said that didn't excite her beyond reason. He was knowledgeable, he didn't suffer fools easily, and apparently had decided that he was going to do whatever the hell he wanted, now that he was fully free from the consequences of his youth.
Of course, he was making some questionable decisions these days as well, apparently. He'd opened an opium den. Plain and simple. He sold illicit drugs and potions, and he'd not sounded apologetic or ashamed when he told her - this was what he was now and you could accept him or not. He'd decided that he would taste every bit of what he'd missed out on as a spy for two decades, and apparently, that meant he really was brewing potions to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. She wondered why it didn't bother her more.
She doubted, if right that minute, if someone were to report him to the Ministry, that anyone would come knocking at his door. Who would dare? Who would even try? Even Harry wasn't that stupid, and he'd ran right into the arms of the Dark Lord with nothing more than happy memories, an utterly stupid, reckless and insane wish to die, and a fucking Expelliarmus on his tongue (to that moment, people still don't believe that was the spell he'd used to defeat Voldemort - sometimes she couldn't believe it when she thought about it).
Severus Snape - this Severus Snape - was attractive for reasons no one else in her life had been. The fact that she found him physically attractive wasn't even at the top of the list of reasons she was attracted to him. But it didn't hurt.
It also didn't hurt that he was an amazing kisser. She wondered who the lucky witch that got to share his bed was. She didn't mean currently, but she wasn't entirely sure that it would matter to her if he were in a current relationship. She's not quite sure what would have had to happen for her to decline his offer. And she was almost positive other witches had accepted it as well, when offered.
It didn't bother Hermione in the slightest. Whatever Severus Snape did outside their time together that evening was his business, and she certainly wasn't going to pry. The man had been a spy - a goddamn amazing spy - he wouldn't tell her anything he didn't wish for her to know.
She did know that a person didn't kiss like that without a lot of practice, and she was absolutely jealous of whomever he practiced with.
How could someone be both gentle and demanding at the same time? How could anyone contain that type of passion and keep it contained as he'd done. How the hell had he kept that a secret all those years ago when he was running between those two sadists that he'd called master? If she hadn't seen it first hand - if she hadn't known it as fact, she would have claimed his Occlumency abilities were bull shit. No one was that good. And yet…
His lips were soft, though she wasn't surprised. This wasn't Professor Snape. This was Potions Master Snape - a man in control of himself and his future, and who took care of himself. She couldn't draw the parallel to Professor Snape. They were completely different people.
His hand had cradled her head gently at first - it was almost sweet - and then his potion came in like a wrecking ball, and they both had tucked their sanity neatly away in a small box in the back of their brains with no consideration for the consequences.
And when he twisted his fist in her hair, and yanked her head to the side, it was such an overload of sensation that she was surprised she didn't faint. To say that their magic was congruent could have been the understatement of the century. Their magics were seeking each other out - crashing against each other - she didn't understand it, but had a feeling he did.
And then he'd whispered in her ear one of the most erotic things she'd ever heard. And then she was spiraling. Her heart rate was still high, and yet, he sat there as if nothing happened.
She took the drink from him and looked down at it, brown drawn in. "It's a different color now," she said, not really understanding why. "What reaction…" she trailed off.
"Tell me, Miss Granger," he began, his tongue dancing around the syllables of her name like a caress. "What reaction does wormwood, aniseed and fennel seed produce when mixed with water?"
Hermione sniffed her drink, and then moved it from side to side, trying to lock onto what he was asking. "Well," she began, stalling for time, "they would start breaking down and releasing their oils into the mixture?"
He looked down at her, his eyebrow raised. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
She took a moment before answering him, not just because the way he was he was looking at her made her want to launch herself at him. He knew it, too, if the smug smirk on his face was anything to go by. "I'm telling you," she hedged.
"And…?"
She looked at the drink again - the way it caught the light and swirled when she moved it. It took her a moment, but she got it. "And the oil obviously doesn't mix with the water, therefore, the light bouncing off the oils makes the drink look cloudy."
He smiled. "As bright as ever, Miss Granger. And you do not even have a book to recite from. A vast improvement from your school days."
"Severus," she began seriously, "the Miss Granger you knew from Hogwarts is long, long gone. Whomever - whatever - I am now - is far afield from the child you knew. The last bits of her died on the grounds of Hogwarts on May 2, 1998."
"Quite right," he said, and it was a moment of companionable silence before she spoke again.
"Sorry," she said finally, not entirely sure what she was apologizing for. "It's taken a long time for people to associate me as Hermione Granger - Hermione Granger, Arithmancy Mistress - and not one of the 'golden trio', or the best friend of the "Chosen One".
He smirked, tilting his head, as if seeing her for the first time, but what he said next confused her. "There she is," he'd whispered.
"There who is?"
"Hermione Granger," he said, and leaned over to gently touch his lips to hers, before standing and taking his former position opposite of her. He obviously wasn't going to expound on that statement, and she wasn't about to ask. He sat back in the chair, crossing his legs again, the absinthe glass dangling from his fingers.
"The louche," he said, seemingly out of nowhere.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The process of the ingredients infusing, giving the absinthe its distinctive cloudy appearance. It is called the louche."
"Oh," she replied, for she had no response for that statement. She sniffed the drink before touching the rim of the glass to her lips.
"Have you used this potion on people before?" she asked curiously, but the shadow that crossed his face informed her that his answer probably wasn't one she wanted to hear.
"We all have our demons to battle, Miss Granger," he'd said softly. "It is, however, the first time I have consumed it. And it is not available for purchase unless the potential buyer and the person they intend to use it when both consent, and are subjected to several rounds of Legilimency performed by me. If I am not satisfied or comfortable, I will not sell it." It was becoming increasingly more difficult to remember the man he was, even with the ink on his left forearm staring at her.
"A word of warning, Miss Granger," he said, quietly. "You are aware of what happened a moment ago. I would be remiss if I did not remind you that the potion we have already ingested is still coursing through your veins. I would also be remiss if I did not remind you that there is a significantly larger amount of that potion in your drink."
"I would also like to inform you that I intend to finish my drink; and I intend to enjoy whatever happens next," he said darkly. "Our magics are fiercely compatible. I intend to explore and find out just how compatible. Make no mistake: la fée verte is coming to find you, Miss Granger. It is your decision if you will allow her to find you or not," he warned, before lifting his drink to his lips and taking a small sip.
She was speechless. What did one say to something like that? "How - how can you sit there as if the potion isn't affecting you?" she sputtered.
His lips twitched; he took another sip and placed his drink down on the table next to his elbow. "Believe me when I say that it is," he said in a low purr.
"Are you using Occlumency?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I am not," he stated simply.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You do not. I did tell you at the door that you should not trust me. That is all the warning I intend to give this evening."
"So I'll just have to trust you, even though you've told me not to?"
He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders as a response. "You are free to leave at any time."
She acknowledged his statement with a noncommittal hum, and watched as he took another small sip of his drink and placed it back on the table.
"This is not an inferior brew found at a pub in Scotland to be consumed in one sip. This absinthe is carefully brewed by a Potions Master, using only the finest ingredients, picked by his own hand, and therefore should be respected as such. That bottle is worth more than my annual salary at Hogwarts, and should be respected as such. Sip slowly. Savor the taste."
His eyes passed over her face, down to where the blush that was forming dipped beneath the neck of her gown. "I certainly intend to."
She felt like she was selling her soul to the Devil.
At a discount.
She hesitated a moment, but just for a moment. Never looking away from him, he tipped his glass in her direction in a salute, and she sipped absinthe, brewed and prepared the proper way, for the first time.
It was heavenly. Her eyes fluttered closed as the anise filled her senses, and she finally understood why the drink was so heavily consumed by some of the best writers in the world.
It was nothing like she'd ever tasted before. She was no potions master, but she could taste the subtle differences between the ingredients, the thujone in the wormwood already taking its effect. She took another sip and sat back, her eyes passing over him lazily.
"What do you taste, Miss Granger?" he asked, relaxing in his chair.
She took a minute to compose her thoughts, because the potion had started working, the room had gotten very warm, and she was finding it difficult to compose sentences verbally. Instead, she took another sip, and began.
"It's almost like trying to describe Amortentia," she began.
"It is," he agreed. "I have been told that it tastes different for each person."
"But how if you're using the same ingredients each time. I don't know anything about brewing absinthe, but none of the ingredients you listed would cause such a reaction, certainly?" she asked, opening her eyes to peek over at him.
"I was not speaking of the absinthe, Miss Granger. I was speaking of the potion."
"Oh," she responded simply, closing her eyes again. "I taste the air of Kyoto, Japan when the leaves change in the autumn." She furrowed her brow and changed her answer. "No, I don't taste the air. I taste the feeling of seeing them for the first time."
"Mhmmm," he purred, encouraging her on.
"The feeling I had when I first arrived at Hogwarts. The leather of a freshly cracked spine of a good book. The relief I felt when Voldemort fell…"
She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and sat up, taking another sip. "And yet, you're completely composed over there," she said chuckling.
"I am not, Miss Granger. I am simply better at hiding my emotions than you. If you will remember, I was a spy for twenty years. My very life depended on keeping my composure at all times. It is not a skill I will or want to forget."
"I see," she said, lifting her own eyebrow. "What do you taste?" she asked, wondering if he'd even tell her.
"You," he replied simply.
She blinked several times, frozen for a moment, before putting her drink down.
"The taste of your mouth, the sickly sweet of sugar on your tongue, the sweetness of the skin of your throat, and an essence that is simply… you. I am curious to find out what I will taste when I bury my face between your thighs."
Her jaw dropped, and she was having difficulty closing it again.
"Well, I do not intend to begin there. There are several other spots on your body that I am anxious to taste. The inside of your wrists, the backs of your knees, the delicate underside of your breasts."
The fact that he was seemingly outwardly unaffected was frustrating.
"However, allow me to indulge in a bit of selfishness," he said, darkly. He simply lifted his right hand, and gestured for her to come closer with his index finger.
She stood, smoothing her dress down as she did and walked across the room toward him. He followed her with his eyes, never moving his head, and looked up at her through surprisingly long lashes. He looked, in a word, hungry. And he'd already said he intended to eat her.
She watched as his eyes took in all of her, and simply sighed, the anticipation running through her veins as fierce and consuming as his. She could tell. His magic was pouring off him in waves, splashing against her like a tempest.
His next word was so soft, she almost didn't hear him as he shifted and uncrossed his legs.
"Knees," he breathed, and she shivered. She wasn't sure her brain was functioning properly - she'd heard his command, but her brain had forgotten how to execute it.
"Do not make me ask a second time, Miss Granger," he growled. "Knees."
She got the message that time, and lifted her gown enough so that she could sink down gracefully between his knees.
He sat forward, and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "Good girl," he purred and touched his lips to her in the sweetest way, running his hands down her shoulders to take her hands in his.
He tugged her forward, and very deliberately, placed her hands on his belt buckle.
He didn't seem unaffected anymore.