(Warning: If you like Hermione too much, don't read any farther. I've heard enough times over this story that I paint her as too weak and pathetic. This isn't a pretty story and it wasn't meant to be. Also, this is where An Unexpected Rendezvous begins to deserve its "M" rating.)


Antics

It was well known that the Minister of Magic was putting pressure on the Daily Prophet of late. Rita Skeeter might not be working for them anymore, but that wouldn't stop the Prophet from printing a juicy story when they got it. But, really, what was there to gain from embarrassing Harry Potter by publishing the antics of his wife?

Despite the Minister's best efforts, the stories leaked out somehow. These stories always did; it was impossible to keep something like this under wraps. Read All About It or not, everyone somehow knew the rumours, whether they believed them or not: Mrs. Potter was depressive; Mrs. Potter was addicted to Polyjuice Potion; Mrs. Potter was trying to kill herself.

In the privacy of his own dungeons, however, Severus Snape refused to believe the hype. Hermione wasn't weak like that, no matter what she had let happen. She was the one who had chosen Potter last year. It was the life she had wanted! Why would she try to escape that, why would she want to? That wasn't how the story went.

Hermione had seen the girl leaving the dressing room, was sure what she'd find there when she went to look. She stepped into the curtained alcove in a shop in the middle of Muggle London. Quickly searching for the object of her desires, she rose up with a long, thin strand of orange hair. Perfect.

Hours later she walked through a seedy bar in one of the darker parts of London, wearing the face of a girl she'd never met, long orange hair hanging down to her waist, and chatting up some guy she'd never see again. Everything was just the way she wanted it, just the way she liked it.

Somewhere during the first months of married life, Mrs. Granger-Potter had perfected Polyjuice Potion. By asserting her own intellect and potions prowess over the problem, she'd managed to create a version of it that would allow her to stay shifted twice as long and the transformation no longer offered its bone-melding, horrifically painful sensations.

She always liked the escape she could find from her life in these bars, wearing another's visage. She liked being the flirt she never was, liked playing the seductress. She'd dazzle them, drag them upstairs to a still seedier bedroom, and lose herself in them before returning home to England's champion Seeker as he got home after long practices. Strangely enough, Hermione's 'random' pick of men always seemed to sport long, dark hair and sour temperaments. That, of course, was pure coincidence.

Severus also had formed a habit of hanging about in Muggle London during the school holidays. He spent his evenings and nights in the local pubs, picking up women and bringing them back to his flat. He'd take them to his bed, one at a time, any night of the week. Severus would fuck any woman who wasn't curvy, perky, and bushy-haired. Anything and anyone to get her out of his brain and out of his blood. It never worked.

Over the summer, Snape had become used to waking up beside women he barely knew in his bed. He'd order them out on his way to the shower. They were never there by the time he returned. Therefore, he wasn't in any way prepared for the night he took to his bed a woman with hair the colour of tangerines and woke up next to Hermione Granger-Potter.

He glowered over at her, feeling betrayed and angry. She'd known it was him, known who she was sleeping with and never told him it was her.

Hermione pouted in a kittenish sort of way, "Aww, Sev. Not happy to see me, baby?" Giggling softly, she stood up, leaving the bed sheets behind, and headed toward the shower, shouting over her shoulder, "I like tea and toast with strawberry jam, lover."

Severus had no idea how to deal with the woman who was so different from the girl he had known. He gaped at her retreating back as she disappeared into his bathroom. He heard the shower begin running.

Hermione's hands slid through her hair, making sure it was wet the whole way through. She could feel last night's exertions washing off her body, cleansing her. Hands pressed roughly against her back, pushing her into the wall. She grinned and closed her eyes, "Up for round two then, love?"

Severus could almost hear her smirk. He leaned forward, lips right beside her ear, "You're playing a dangerous game here, Mrs. Potter."

Hermione smiled and turned around, letting him press her into the wall with his body, "Yeah, but it's fun." She sealed his mouth with her own, one of her legs wrapping up over his hip. His smooth, bare chest pressed hard against her. She'd feel his teeth on her body for days afterwards.

Severus growled. She wants you. He gave her no choice this time. He was in control and, for the moment, that was the way she wanted it. Potter can't satisfy her. As if in another life, Severus could feel himself taking her against the shower wall, for once glad of the no-slide decals he'd placed on the tile floor.

She was far more lustful than he remembered her, far more emotive. She was playing a part, but for now he didn't care, "Look at me, Mrs.Potter. You chose me this time, so look at me." His voice came out as a growl.

She looked down at him, staring into his eyes, "Come on, lover. Make me scream! You've done it before." She grinned wickedly.

He didn't want to see her like this. This wasn't the Hermione he wanted. Minutes later Snape left the shower, clean but frustrated. This wasn't what he wanted. Not like this.

Soon after, Hermione followed him out, hair wet from the shower. She was wearing his black, button up shirt and little else.

A piece of toast popped up and she grabbed the still-hot piece of bread before he could get to it, rooting in his refrigerator for jam. She spread the strawberry paste across her toast and bit in, moaning softly.

Hermione walked to the kitchen table and sat down on it, her feet planted on two chairs, leaving her legs spread wide. Slowly, teasingly she ate the toast, moaning far more than was warranted by the burnt half-wheat and jam.

Snape tried not to look at her, to ignore her, but he was aching and it reminded him that she was sitting there, practically asking for it.

She finished her toast and licked off each of her fingers, ending with the middle one which she deep throated for his amusement and memory, "Come on, love." She reached out and drew him close to her. He wasn't wearing anything except black jeans, which she quickly did away with, he wasn't really sure how.

He could feel her soft hands. She was such a tease. Severus growled again, "Stop that, you whore." He hated hearing himself call her that.

Hermione just giggled again, horribly, "Aww, you don't mean that, do you?"

A man's self-control can only last for so long, and Hermione made sure that his broke quickly. Severus let himself call her all the things he'd thought since first seeing her face in his bed that morning. He called her a whore; he called her weak and said she disgusted him. Somehow, strewn across his kitchen table, it only excited her more.

When they were finished, he went into his room, cleaned himself up, and gathered her clothes. Severus dumped them on the table and told her to get out, saying again how much she disgusted him.

Wandering around in the kitchen later, ostensibly to make himself breakfast, Severus felt sick. He could feel the bile building in the pit of his stomach. This was wrong. No matter what anyone else thought, Snape had believed himself to be an honest man with at least a modicum of morality.

She wanted it. He looked around for coffee placed the old-fashioned percolator on the stove. Something about the out-dated, muggle device always calmed him a bit. She begged for it. He couldn't make the voice shut up. Sitting at the table, waiting for coffee to bubble, he held his head in his hands. Potter can't satisfy her.

Minutes later the coffee was finished and he stood up, pouring it into a cup without looking at it. Sinking back into his chair, sneering as much as he could muster, Severus noticed that his coffee bore a striking resemblance in taste and texture to percolated mud. He'd had his way with her, hadn't he? Wasn't that supposed to get her out of his system? He'd taken her in his bed the night before and then now, in the shower and across the kitchen table. Told her she was disgusting and threw her out.

Face again in his hands, a terrible, truthful voice perked up, She was just playing with you.


(This chapter was originally much more graphic when first written. For the longer, graphic version of this piece, just request it and I'll be happy to email it to you.)