CHAPTER SIX
And so it went on, and each found themselves simultaneously soothed and
invigorated by one another's presence. Their desire for each other waxed
and waned with their proximity, and each found it harder to contain, as
their time together grew more intimate. At times, Hermione felt, she could
climax from the mere sound of his voice as he recounted an anecdote from
his studies. He seemed to sweep over her in waves, and the smell of his
chambers only added to her heightened awareness of him, her nearness to
him. It was a constant fight to remain composed as she watched him play,
his lean body tight and strong, the same body and mind and face that
haunted both her dreams and waking hours. He stood with great refinement,
yet his movements were somehow passionate, as his elbow led the retreat of
his strong, long fingered hand that held the bow gracefully. His other
fingers, nimble and sure on the neck of the violin, and his face a mixture
of concentration and enjoyment. She imagined what his face would look like
in the throes of passion, and had to mentally clear away her heated
thoughts, in fear she might miss her entrance into the movement.
In turn, he watched her, and often enough that he berated himself for being a dirty old man. He lusted after her, the back of her neck, the supple curve of her shoulder, the delicate inward flux of her waist. He found himself drawn to portions of her body and mind that he otherwise would never have given second thoughts to. Once, she had taken off her shoes to warm her feet in his rug by the fire, and he had watched her pale, smooth feet with keen interest, until tearing his eyes away as he felt himself harden at the thought of those feet crossed over his back, as he pictured himself slowly peeling stockings away to reveal them to his hands and mouth. At night, after she took her leave to return to her rooms, he would prepare for bed, complete his ablutions and stand, clad in his bathrobe, with his head in his hands, willing himself to resist the temptation to touch himself to her image. He was unable to control the heated dreams that would awaken him panting and stroking himself, unable to stop his hands and the sighs of her name, but he would not allow himself, a grown man, to be driven to a waking masturbatory fantasy about his colleague and friend. When he awoke, cursing and rising to clean himself off, he often would return to his study in his bathrobe, to sit in her chair, the large armchair she would claim whenever they weren't playing. She would curl up on the cushion, her feet tucked under her, to discuss with him whatever topic they chose for the evening, or to simply sit in his company, reading or watching the flames of the fire. Severus was slightly sad to admit that he didn't think he would be able to get used to her absence if she were not to come to his chambers at night. She had become an addiction, a welcome comfort and pleasure with which to end his day. The chair had come to smell of her, the slight fragrance of library incense and rose oil, with which she polished her cello, and which, he had realized early in their friendship, she perpetually smelled of. He would laugh, softly, to himself, recalling a particularly cutting comment he had inflicted onto one of his students that day, and wonder at what the students and faculty would think to know that he, Severus Snape, was one to breathe deeply of a slight scent for the pure longing for one woman.
There came a night in mid December, cold and cruel outdoors. A storm wrapped itself about the castle walls, flinging it's raging, freezing rain against the windows, and creating in the castle, the feeling of impenetrability; the warm, golden feeling one gets from knowing that one is safe from the cold and wet. Hermione, exhausted from hours of translations of ancient potions runes, stumbled from the library feeling famished. Glancing at her timepiece, she smiled softly, speeding up her pace to arrive at his chambers at the usual time. Food nor rest had managed to lure her from the library that day, but she could not go without her nightly dose of tranquility, to be beside him and to join with him in their mutual love of the creation of music.
She arrived at his door, cello in hand, and gave a tired but pleased greeting to his own. He took the instrument from her, a slight frown of concern gracing his handsome features, and placed it against the wall. "It looks as if you have been neglecting basic sustenance for your studies. Have you no sense at all?" he admonished, shaking his head slightly. "You're looking well, yourself, Severus." She responded, giving a slight chuckle to his rebuke. "You know very well the importance of one's health, Hermia, and therefore I suggest," he said, as he gathered his cloak, "that we briefly visit the kitchens in order to provide you with some nourishment before you collapse over your cello." Feeling relieved, she smiled, broadly, and followed him back out of his chambers, "Thank you, Severus, I truly don't know what I would do without you." They both startled slightly at the intimacy of her comment, before he placed a soft hand on her lower back in a gesture both chivalrous and kind, guiding her towards the kitchens without a word.
About half way to the kitchens, Hermione turned to him. "Severus, why didn't we simply ask one of the house elves to fetch a platter and bring it to your rooms?" Severus looked slightly embaressed. "My chambers are tended to by myself. I have no need for house elves, their perpetual self- deprication wears my nerves thin, and I consider my chambers to be private." She felt an irrational burst of pride at the fact that he would allow her to spend time in his chambers. "Therefore, I have no means to contact a house elf, and, furthermore," he said, as he opened the large, white carved doors to the kitchens, "I believe that most of the house elves have Tuesday evenings off." He was right, as it turned out, and the kitchen was empty of elves, students or faculty. "Looks like we'll need to fend for ourselves," he pondered, as he began poking his head into cabinets and searching for various food items. Hermione ate a slice of chocolate cake as he told her of his own graduation from Hogwarts, when the joviality had been stifled by the rise of the dark lord. She listened with interest, and finished her cake as he ended his story. They were about to leave to return to his chambers, when she recalled Dobby telling her that there was a stash of tea in the pantry, and that were she in need of refills of her chamber's tea supply, which she currently was, she had but to ask. "One moment Severus," she said, as he turned back to her, "I just need to fetch more tea from the pantry." The small closet was lined with various foods, odd wizarding spices and, towards the back, next to the exploding chocolate bombs (reserved for special occasions for the students) were the tea supplies. Maneuvering herself into the small space, she reached for the tea, only to be caught around the wrist by what felt like a strong, invisible hand. She let out a muffled shriek, attempting to wrest her hand away from the offensive clamp. Severus, having heard her cry, rushed into the small pantry with her to investigate, only to be gripped around his own wrist, and they both gasped to see the door to the pantry close suddenly, with a loud and final bang.
In turn, he watched her, and often enough that he berated himself for being a dirty old man. He lusted after her, the back of her neck, the supple curve of her shoulder, the delicate inward flux of her waist. He found himself drawn to portions of her body and mind that he otherwise would never have given second thoughts to. Once, she had taken off her shoes to warm her feet in his rug by the fire, and he had watched her pale, smooth feet with keen interest, until tearing his eyes away as he felt himself harden at the thought of those feet crossed over his back, as he pictured himself slowly peeling stockings away to reveal them to his hands and mouth. At night, after she took her leave to return to her rooms, he would prepare for bed, complete his ablutions and stand, clad in his bathrobe, with his head in his hands, willing himself to resist the temptation to touch himself to her image. He was unable to control the heated dreams that would awaken him panting and stroking himself, unable to stop his hands and the sighs of her name, but he would not allow himself, a grown man, to be driven to a waking masturbatory fantasy about his colleague and friend. When he awoke, cursing and rising to clean himself off, he often would return to his study in his bathrobe, to sit in her chair, the large armchair she would claim whenever they weren't playing. She would curl up on the cushion, her feet tucked under her, to discuss with him whatever topic they chose for the evening, or to simply sit in his company, reading or watching the flames of the fire. Severus was slightly sad to admit that he didn't think he would be able to get used to her absence if she were not to come to his chambers at night. She had become an addiction, a welcome comfort and pleasure with which to end his day. The chair had come to smell of her, the slight fragrance of library incense and rose oil, with which she polished her cello, and which, he had realized early in their friendship, she perpetually smelled of. He would laugh, softly, to himself, recalling a particularly cutting comment he had inflicted onto one of his students that day, and wonder at what the students and faculty would think to know that he, Severus Snape, was one to breathe deeply of a slight scent for the pure longing for one woman.
There came a night in mid December, cold and cruel outdoors. A storm wrapped itself about the castle walls, flinging it's raging, freezing rain against the windows, and creating in the castle, the feeling of impenetrability; the warm, golden feeling one gets from knowing that one is safe from the cold and wet. Hermione, exhausted from hours of translations of ancient potions runes, stumbled from the library feeling famished. Glancing at her timepiece, she smiled softly, speeding up her pace to arrive at his chambers at the usual time. Food nor rest had managed to lure her from the library that day, but she could not go without her nightly dose of tranquility, to be beside him and to join with him in their mutual love of the creation of music.
She arrived at his door, cello in hand, and gave a tired but pleased greeting to his own. He took the instrument from her, a slight frown of concern gracing his handsome features, and placed it against the wall. "It looks as if you have been neglecting basic sustenance for your studies. Have you no sense at all?" he admonished, shaking his head slightly. "You're looking well, yourself, Severus." She responded, giving a slight chuckle to his rebuke. "You know very well the importance of one's health, Hermia, and therefore I suggest," he said, as he gathered his cloak, "that we briefly visit the kitchens in order to provide you with some nourishment before you collapse over your cello." Feeling relieved, she smiled, broadly, and followed him back out of his chambers, "Thank you, Severus, I truly don't know what I would do without you." They both startled slightly at the intimacy of her comment, before he placed a soft hand on her lower back in a gesture both chivalrous and kind, guiding her towards the kitchens without a word.
About half way to the kitchens, Hermione turned to him. "Severus, why didn't we simply ask one of the house elves to fetch a platter and bring it to your rooms?" Severus looked slightly embaressed. "My chambers are tended to by myself. I have no need for house elves, their perpetual self- deprication wears my nerves thin, and I consider my chambers to be private." She felt an irrational burst of pride at the fact that he would allow her to spend time in his chambers. "Therefore, I have no means to contact a house elf, and, furthermore," he said, as he opened the large, white carved doors to the kitchens, "I believe that most of the house elves have Tuesday evenings off." He was right, as it turned out, and the kitchen was empty of elves, students or faculty. "Looks like we'll need to fend for ourselves," he pondered, as he began poking his head into cabinets and searching for various food items. Hermione ate a slice of chocolate cake as he told her of his own graduation from Hogwarts, when the joviality had been stifled by the rise of the dark lord. She listened with interest, and finished her cake as he ended his story. They were about to leave to return to his chambers, when she recalled Dobby telling her that there was a stash of tea in the pantry, and that were she in need of refills of her chamber's tea supply, which she currently was, she had but to ask. "One moment Severus," she said, as he turned back to her, "I just need to fetch more tea from the pantry." The small closet was lined with various foods, odd wizarding spices and, towards the back, next to the exploding chocolate bombs (reserved for special occasions for the students) were the tea supplies. Maneuvering herself into the small space, she reached for the tea, only to be caught around the wrist by what felt like a strong, invisible hand. She let out a muffled shriek, attempting to wrest her hand away from the offensive clamp. Severus, having heard her cry, rushed into the small pantry with her to investigate, only to be gripped around his own wrist, and they both gasped to see the door to the pantry close suddenly, with a loud and final bang.
