Hey everyone - this is a belated Christmas commission, intended as a gift from our lovely reader and requester Marie to her friend Jeanette. It started as a one shot, but it kind of took on a life of its own, so you get 3 parts instead of one and 40 pages instead of 10 😅 We're very sorry, hopefully the length makes up for the delay. And we hope everyone else enjoys it as well! And no worries, we will be updating the main fic by the end of the week (apologies about that too). As for this, we intend to get all three parts up before this time tomorrow - Wish us luck! (Psst, we did our own cover art this time. Well, Abby did ?) Hope everyone had a good holiday weekend!
~ Kristina & Abby
(Warning: This is a very smutty fic, including allusions to public masturbation, explicit sexual content, lewd language, sexual roleplay of a student-teacher nature, wand play, spanking, oral (both m and f receiving), depictions of bodily fluids, breeding/daddy/praise kinks, edging/orgasm delay, etc. X-posted to AO3 for full use of tags and warnings)
Gift Tag:
Merry Christmas to my 'Nettey Jeanettey'!
I wanted to get you something extra special from your favourite storytellers and about our favourite ship. Thank you so much for introducing both set of pairs to me, it's been so fun to bond over them with you ️!
Hope you enjoy the concept! Did my best to request what you'd enjoy the most ?.
Much Slytherin & SS/HG love from your bestie,
'Marie Berry'
P.S. And all the thanks in the world to TheHalfBloodPrincess46 (Kristina & Abby) for taking the time during this busy, holiday week to write a personal commission for my dearest friend. You guys are the best and your work is stunning! So humbled to be your first commission, and (hopefully) not your last! xoxo
A Sorted Problem
"Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained." – William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Chapter 1
It had been just over five days, at this point. Five, immeasurable, arduous days of relentless celibacy. Celibacy, it should be noted, of both the carnal variety, and, just as mournfully, of the verbal-sparring nature. The latter of which often induced the former when it concerned the sybaritic predications of Hermione Granger-Snape and her Potions Master. Indeed, their intellectual discourses in conjunction with their brazen banter – always pregnant with innuendos and foreshadowings – irrevocably lead to a myriad list of role-playing scenarios that they were incessantly agog to augment upon.
Severus had insisted that in order to finish his newest potion – of which he had rudely refused to impart any knowledge of to her – his wife would need to abide at her former flat for a week, so as to ensure his "committed adherence to his work". Not a problem in theory, since most of the week she would be at work herself, however, in the execution of fulfilling his request, a week of distance upon becoming so acclimated to nigh-on constant physical contact, was practically becoming tantamount to torture for the young witch. Indeed, though she was meant to return on the soon-approaching date of Sunday, by midday on Friday, Hermione was decidedly out of patience.
She had every confidence that her husband was just as miserable, to be sure, though defeating his acute stubbornness in order to elicit an admittance to that fact, would require a markedly particular set of skills, not to mention an inventive, unutilised scenario. One of which, she could guarantee that he would be powerless to abstain from partaking in. Luckily, she was convinced she had just the 'play' that would be appropriate for the conquest at hand.
Meanwhile, Severus Snape had been hunched over the seventh cauldron that day to have ended up in the proverbial bin before preparing to bathe it out – though, with these cases, it was rather the cellar sink. He was meticulously methodic in his cleaning of his iron vats, only ever employing 'muggle tools' with which to do so. He was specifically attached to those of good, old-fashioned, elbow-grease coupled with a very light, yet coarse, metallic sponge. He most decidedly did not hire the use of magic when it came to the keeping of his cauldrons, or for the exquisite science that was the art of potion brewing. Save, perhaps, for the acts of stirring or pouring, etc. at occasional times when he was overwhelmed with a plethora of active brews. No, some things, like chemistry, the Muggles did actually offer an edifying 'textbook' of which to emulate from.
And so, having thrown his latest batch of self-invented 'Anti-Arousal' potion away, and having just cleansed the aged vessel, Severus was in the midst of drying the thing when he could have sworn he heard a set of light footsteps above his head. He paused his hands' activity and tilted an ear towards the suspicious reverberations before, finally, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he resigned the perusal of his 'investigation' after detecting no further intelligence.
Odd, very odd, he couldn't help but ponder as he returned to his current task. For even his wife barely knew of, let alone had ever been authorised residency into, his at-home potions den. Speaking of whom, this entire bloody project was completely due to. Her and her bloody 'published' shenanigans.
For fuck's sake, the poor man was virtually unable to go out in public any more given how easily his mast could rise because of them. Even a simple locking of their eyes, or a lift of her ringed finger to her mouth in an allusive display, or worst of all, a hushed, pouting complaint employing his favourite moniker, such as, "Daddy, Kitten's thirsty…" as she pawed his groin under a table, had almost made him 'sully' his trousers once, if not twice already. No, no, the woman had simply gone off the bloody rails and he needed some sort of defence with it all. She was having far too much fun with his male disadvantage. It was time to severely curb it. For it really wasn't an even playing field.
It was more than welcome on his part, however, not to mention more discreet, whenever she would submit to being the affected party, by holding court on his lap, for example. Gyrating mutedly until she wetted his trousers with her arousal, or, chose the delayed option of doing so in her knickers only to gift them slyly behind her back for him to pocket and treasure as a trophy until they got home. Yes, he was quite for those cheeky 'performances', to be sure. But having to parent a perpetual tent, let alone the aching his cock felt even soft without being inside her – not withstanding how it argued when it was more than ready to be so – was becoming very fucking hard to weather. And as such, he had concluded that the only sensible thing to do was to exile her from Spinner's End until he was able to 'concocked' a remedy for his aforementioned appendage.
Still, it had been five days, and even the thought of her still proved to supply him with a bloody semi. This last endeavour had been the most promising thus far, to be sure, but not enough to proclaim it as being near 'finished', altogether. Though he was confident that he would succeed in this next round. Surely, it would be the one that would get him somewhere– or rather, get him nowhere, as the aim was meant to be.
And yet again, he harkened the sound of the shifting of weight upstairs. With an addled grunt he was retrieved from his internal pontifications, leaving him to wonder at the disturbance that was interrupting his work. What the fuck was going on; who was upstairs?
Much to his ersatz chagrin, however, after a moment or so of judicious consideration, he did have a fairly good guess.
Upon arriving back at Spinner's End not quite immediately after work – for it was far too likely that he might be looking out for that – Hermione was relatively unsurprised not to see her husband anywhere. Well, on the first floor, at least. Nor did she hear him on the second. He likely had barely absconded from his personal 'dungeon' cellar since she'd departed the Sunday prior. She was still a bit miffed about that, but truth be told, she understood his motivation – the one she confidently had likely deduced it to be, for he, again, had been quite surrepitive about it all.
Ever since she and her husband had initiated the business of regular shagging, they hadn't truly ever stopped. If at all, it was more like they would hit the 'pause' button anytime something other than each other's ultimate satisfaction needed to be tended to. And even then, they were always quick to 'resume' once the meddlesome obligation had been completed. (Though, sometimes, at the detriment of the realisation of the given responsibility).
No wonder the man couldn't focus. Bless.
Not that it was entirely either of their faults, really – or rather, the blame was equally shared. He could barely last a whole day while she was at work without his writing her dirty notes throughout their hours apart. And in doing so, of course, patently managed to distract her from her work – always his ultimate design.
Though what all of that really meant, was that this sudden, imposed 'dry spell' – whilst likely constructive for them each, for some reason that currently escaped her – was especially miserable. Particularly given that they'd also made a pact to not indulge themselves independently during the interlude.
Hermione's suspicions with regard to his location were confirmed when she heard the tell-tale squeak of the ancient pipes at his running of the tap somewhere below, alongside a clatter of what she could only presume to be something going less than well beneath her feet. All the better time to interrupt, surely….
And so, with a bit of spell-assisted stealth, Hermione cautiously snuck her way towards the cellar door. She knew where the entrance was, of course, even if she had only ever glimpsed down the stairs and into the stone basement once, and briefly at that. Though that was soon going to be rightly remedied. So down the creaky steps Hermione Granger-Snape traversed, a black cloak wrapped snugly around her form as she did her utmost to tread the fussy boards as gingerly could even with the slight addition of magic.
Severus' back tensed as he almost felt the descent of her steps down the choleric, wooden stairs, but he kept resolute in his task, shutting off the rickety tap before flicking his hands and forearms clear of water. He grabbed a nearby towel and hurried them dry before husking lowly, back still turnt, "….May. I. Help. You. Wife?"
Hermione froze her downward climb on the stairs as he addressed her proper, twisting her lips in amusement at his predictable hyper-awareness, though she chose to stay silent for a moment as she continued to saunter the rest of the way down the staircase.
She loosened the enshrouding fabric from around her figure, revealing a generous glimpse of her ensemble beneath it, essentially being a more 'adult' variation on the Hogwarts uniform – and a Slytherin one at that. The school-issued skirt was far shorter than would be authorised and trimmed in green, the familiar jumper hung loose and open, revealing the white blouse that was far too snug to keep itself from gaping the strain of her bustline, and unbuttoned just enough to be considered too low for the propriety of any 'schoolgirl'. The brilliant green and silver tie, with its snake broach, hung loosely in place so as to give the viewer of her figure the benefit of the 'blouse's indiscretion', but still bluntly advertised its emblem.
Only upon reaching the last, steep step did Hermione respond to his call with an acute raise of her brow partnered by a saucy remark of her own to follow.
"Well, if that's a proposal I'll take it, but I was given detention…by you, Professor Snape."
Severus was about to smirk and roll his eyes at her comment, which seemed rather out of place when he turned around to view her in the flesh. And in so doing, bore witness to what her very flesh had on. And what a fucking marvel it was.
Oh…. Oh! That's what she meant… What a little votary of Venus! He mused to himself and as such silently also thanked the gods for having downed a good two vials of his former assay with the intention of testing it a half hour earlier. Or else, the probability of 'fouling' his trousers in that very instant would be quite ineluctable.
Fuck, she really should have been a Slytherin, shouldn't she have? He had always thought so. But her cunning and manipulation here surely provided him with the final nails needed to seal the coffin shut on that conviction, for sure. What a pity. Though, it seemed, at least for the narrative of their little "play" here, she had finally come to her senses regarding that dolesome fact.
"Ah, Miss….Granger," he began with only the lightest of pauses, stepping into his sanctioned role with ease as he tossed the used rag onto the table and amended the roll of his sleeves at his elbows. She did love his hands and forearms, might as well play just as unscrupulous as she.
"Shouldn't you be in your house uniform, Miss Granger? Or are you purposively attempting to sabotage your house of points?" he queried with a haughty glint to his eye before adding to his chronicle for decorative effect, "And as much as, I too, get impatient with Pansy's littering of her articles for the house elves to cache for her…. We still shouldn't touch , let alone abscond away with, that which isn't ours?"
Her eyes rolled a bit at the remark lest she look too amused with his reference, of whom they both shared some antipathy for.
"They're only clothes, Professor," she pointed out with a dismissive gesture. "As though I couldn't just transfigure them to whatever colour I choose."
"Fine, if you insist. However, I'm still staggered by the fact that you are even donning them? Why would the little prodigy of Gryffindor ever seek to be anything but a 'lioness'?" He challenged rather boredly as he began chopping a length of cinnamon bark once more.
Hermione halted her approach to his figure just a few steps after the staircase, watching her husband engorge her appearance with extreme satisfaction. Though, only upon doing so, did she begin to pace forwards, just as he averted his attention back to his menial task in his ever- present, ever- predictably, obstinate fashion. Athena, man, take a bloody day off.
"Well, perhaps it occurred to me that I was deemed a 'lioness' through... unreliable means."
"Go on…." he replied with arrant detachment as he kept his eyes cast down to his punctilious chopping, awaiting her reasoning with enjoined patience.
As he did so, he granted her a majestic tour de force as he haphazardly tossed grinds and roots behind his back and into the sink as required, before pedantically chopping up a root of wormwood with more aptitude than any professional, culinary chef could promise to do. She hadn't seen that particular skill in full yet, that was for certain, and he intended to engineer it to his full advantage, and to her full 'detriment', whilst he was still in the process of steadying his position in this impromptu 'improvisation'.
Hermione's absorption instantaneously minded the dexterous movements of his hands, as it often did, blinking briefly before refocusing on whatever the bloody fuck she had intended on exiting her mouth at the moment – that is, if she could recall it. Bloody show off.
"The sorting hat has a certain, and deliberate, familial and genetic bias, as I'm sure you've noticed – a bit of an ingrained and ancient habit on the hat's part, I'd say. And whilst I do laud it's occasional judgement of character, it's become increasingly clear that whilst I hold certain... shared traits between both of our houses, philosophically, my views do not verily reflect my given house, but rather, do yours . I was merely never considered for the option."
"So…. what …., Miss Granger? You came here both to serve your detention and to appeal to me, the Head of House that you are mysteriously so covetous to be resorted into, on how you might go about achieving that little endeavour? To, perchance, persuade me by some means to speak on your behalf? Beg me on your knees to beseech with the headmaster to right the sorting hat's wrong, so many years ago? If so , I suggest you turn around after your punishment is finished and speak to the head of your house first . Besides, there has only ever been one – maybe two – occasions where a student was successful in being resorted, and even then, that was within their first year, and was due to a ghost's interference during the child's sorting ceremony. No one , however, has ever accomplished it when basically on the verge of the completion of their academic career…." Severus concluded his monologue with a small suckling of his cheeks as he returned to the work he had so paused in the midst of his list of admonishments with regards to her unanticipated request, though he did bite back a private smile of amused anticipation at what she presented him. If, of course, he had gauged her 'story-line' correctly.
"Well, with all due respect to the Deputy Headmistress, I would prefer to petition to you...first, Professor Snape" she drawled, continuing to walk towards him unimpeded before finally pausing her forward momentum to lean her hip against the far side of the work table he was so purposefully looming over, biting her lip.
"So, do you agree with my judgement, Professor? I have no interest in… propositioning where I'm not wanted ."
"I really have no intention of answering that query at this time, Miss Granger. For, with all due respect to me , not to mention her , you really should be going to Professor McGonagall to begin with. After all, if this is the churlish code of conduct you exhibit towards the Head of House you've had your entire time here, thus far, what am I to expect of your reserve for me as a "newfound" guardian?" Severus fired back.
He ensured to maintain a pragmatic cadence as he purposefully ignored the heart of her true aim to elicit a confession out of him which would state that he, too, was in agreement with the sentiment that she should have always been a Snake.
Yes, he would circumvent that appeasement for as long as he was able. In the interim he would require her to produce an inventory of all the sundry qualities and facts that made her so very certain that she was of his house's calibre. For as much as this was a role-play, as he had pondered upon earlier, it was no confidence to himself that he'd always fancied it to be the case. And as such, he might as well get the proud little tart of a Lioness to, perhaps , ascertain the sorting hat's grave error by the end of this little adjournment. Yes, that would be quite the titillating treat for him, indeed.
Hermione sighed at his unwavering protest to her jumping the proverbial line, licking her lips in measured deliberation as she decided how best to proceed.
"Because then she would've spoken to you about it first , and I wanted to see your... reaction firsthand, Professor," she excused without a pause for thought, her head tilting as she studied his motions carefully.
He was being quite cautious to avoid eye contact, that was for sure, but otherwise, remained seemingly unmoved. Hmm. Very suspicious. Either their time apart had increased his tolerance – unlikely – or he was cheating somehow.
"I. See..." Severus finally sighed slowly, collecting the bits of wormwood he had just chopped up with the side of his knife's blade before depositing them into his hand for transfer into his drying pot. A bit of moisture on them at the start of the brew, he had discovered the sixth time, was immensely beneficial.
"Well, Miss Granger," he continued in apparent indifference as he twirled back to his workspace before, finally forging eye-contact with her, "just what did you expect, or rather, did you – do you – hope for my reaction to be?" he finished with a skeptical grunt as he suddenly lifted the sharp instrument towards her person. And with the utmost caution and respect, he very gingerly ghosted a vertical line with the dull side of it's shank down the lower part of her throat. It was a comprehensible, mum directive to stop encroaching on his space and kindly back the fuck very much up.
Indeed, Hermione was getting far too near him to have full faith in the potency of what he had ingested, and Severus wasn't about to overextend his dedicated resolve so soon. No, he was determined to edge them both to the extreme until one of them, ultimately, decided to waver, and capitulate.
Hermione's posture stiffened as he pressed the cool steel to her skin. She angled her chin upward, extending her neck to create a hair's breadth of added distance between the hazardous instrument and her throat – though, she failed to heed his inference by actually proceeding to take any steps backward.
"I hope you'll give me your honest opinion, whatever that may be, Professor Snape – untainted by your opinion of me or of whom I've chosen to associate with...in the past."
"I shall, but only after you remove yourself from my work space and take a seat at the chair and desk just there," he informed her curtly, pausing a moment to transfigure a stool into a decently-sized desk and a ladder into a chair.
" Now then , if your will is so boundless so as to insist in swaying me to favour your dogma , I shall forgo your scheduled "punishment" for today, and instead, you will write me a three-page essay, if not more, on the various points and qualifications that you think justify this 'appeal' of yours to be resorted."
Her brow arched unapologetically at both the maneuver and the request, but she'd hardly expected anything less. His "Professor-mode" often got... literal . She could easily take advantage of that, however.
"Yes, Sir," she responded groughly, slipping out of her cloak as she finally backed away from him before draping it over the chair and taking a seat.
Her eyes then dropped casually to the desktop as her thighs spread beneath its surface, her feet bracing against either visible leg of the chair. She fronted a seemingly 'innocent' contemplation, despite blatantly flashing the distinct lack of knickers between her stockinged thighs as she intently watched him proceed to spurn her very presence. Well, that wouldn't last for long given her little exhibition , surely….
Severus had just begun chopping his next herb when he found that his eyes were incapable of remaining focused southwards. Indeed, without sanctioning it, they suddenly darted immediately towards her person – a grave error on their part, indeed. For in the process of studying her, even if only for a moment - they became more than privy to the alluring, offered sight. Fuck . Her heated folds already seemed to be aching for him between her costumed thighs, for he could readily observe the glint of moisture that had already started to gather between them. Gaining his attention thus, had obviously been her main objective.
Damn her to hell. He immediately paused his hands' workings, cranked his neck 'in annoyance' to the left and the right, before spearing her eyes with his.
"This is not a bawdy house, Miss Granger. If you were unsuccessful at remembering to attire yourself with the basic essentials of an outfit that only speaks to a cleverly buried thickness on your part . Which, the entire bloody school knows perfectly well you could be incapable of possessing," he complimented backhandedly.
"Regardless, flashing your womanhood at your superior is highly inappropriate and cause for expulsion to be sure. What. Do. You. Take. Me. For? "
Hermione forcefully muffled a smirk, barely acknowledging his piercing stare before glancing dismissively back down to her parchment. She was quite a long way from finding the word 'expulsion' even remotely intimidating anymore though her brow did wag faintly at the reference to her, 'seeming', lack of intelligence, though gave him no other reaction.
"Do you make a habit of looking up my skirt, Professor, or only now that it's green?" She went on to enquire pseudo-casually.
The former spy huffed in searing vexation as he set his paring knife down and braced his weight over his workstation proper, his head bent in controlled "devotion" as he mulled over his potential verbal retributions.
" Don't. Flatter. Yourself, Granger. I've never made a habit out of you in any form. I've disregarded you, snubbed you, practically censured you all of these years. And believe you me, it hasn't been a hardship to do so. The fact that you're now engaging in an effort to abandon your house for mine is either manically amusing to you, or you're simply trying to shag me – for Merlin knows what rationale."
He tossed his eyes to the right and then up in faux disgruntlement at the prospect before continuing, "However, I don't for one instant believe that you're taking any of this even remotely seriously . And, therefore," he grabbed his knife before choking it up in the air only to catch it deftly with his other hand, " Neither. Am. I. "
"Well obviously you've ignored me, Professor, or you'd have noticed sooner," she prodded back, pointedly unbothered by his tone as she continued her slow and undeterred scribbling upon the parchment.
"Actually it's become a modus operandi , if you will. As I've never had to worry about your noticing, seeing as we've already established your disregard for me. In fact, I thought I might get through my whole, final term without you being any the wiser as to my novel, little practise ," she flashed him a flirtatious eye.
Severus placed his knife down as he eyed his wife with a look of sheer, impressed, vivacity. For whilst the 'character' of himself was surely aloof to what his 'co-star' was referring to – i.e. her exercise of going knickerless to his class for, apparently almost a term – the actual Severus was not. No, he fully could acknowledge what she was getting at, and found himself more than remorseful that it wasn't, however, based on fact. Indeed, he couldn't help but cerebrate on just what muse inspired her to think up such a saucy 'backstory' – of which he was more than grateful.
Still, he had to play not only unamused, but largely unmoved , for as long a time as he could bear.
"What the hell are you prattling about, Miss Granger? And, by the way, I will be deducting thirty points from your house – as you are not yet a part of mine – for your utter disregard of respect to my authority whilst in my classroom given that little 'show'."
"How unfortunate ," she snarked, amused in spite of herself, though she neutralised her expression, determined to remain calm just to exacerbate his growing agitation.
Whether it was acted or – hopefully – beginning to be literal, Hermione was determined to remain equitable despite her own impatience and the growing urge to squirm in her seat. Particularly , when his approval began to ever-so-slightly leak through his façade.
"I respect you greatly, Professor Snape. One of the only members of my house who's always done so, by the way. I only disclaim your choice to pretend that I don't exist…"
"And just why is that, Miss Granger?" he hissed back as he kept his eyes firmly on hers, his pelvis pressing against the side of the table strategically as his cock was slowly beginning to defeat the libation and awaken afresh. He grunted impatiently at her silence.
"You and your precious boys have loathed me since day one. And, therefore, I refuse to believe that you have any regard for me save that of bitter resentment and distrust. Or need I remind you of your first-year's trespassing of arson with regards to my robes? Yes , I do know that it was you ."
Though his 'fictional self' would certainly not have been honoured to such knowledge at, what he inferred to be, the already fictitious timeline of their 'alternate universe' here, Snape was too amused by this easter egg of a fact to not toss it back in her face at such an opportune time. She had been the one to relinquish that bit of information to him during one of their many bouts of interim pillow talks, so therefore, surely it was fair game to employ now? Even if on his behalf?
Hermione rested her chin in her hand, elbow propped on the desk whilst her dominant one tapped the quill onto the surface methodically – a perfectly innocent stance so long as his eyes stayed northward, above where her thighs straddled the chair.
"Well you certainly couldn't ignore me then , could you, Sir ?" She couldn't resist the urge to drawl, trying to beat back a smirk as she considered how to address the actual crux of the issues, despite his perhaps, misplaced, interest in distracting her.
"Deliberate indifference always seemed a bit petty a method of education for someone of your intelligence, Professor, ergo my small efforts at challenging it. You've done remarkably well thus far, but now you have no one else to harass… And as much as I'm fond of my friends, we don't exactly share one brain. Well, the other two might … I, on the other hand, can hold my own opinions."
"Do stop your ceaseless prattling, Miss Granger. This discussion is officially at an end. Get back to work on your bloody essay. Now ," Severus hurled in return, slamming his knife down on the table as he glared at her in mock loathing.
"For if you really are so eager to join my house, then take this opportunity to prove it. Stop flirting and start being cunning", he finished with a lick of his lower lip before returning to his slicing of herbs.
"How many overflowing and over-flung essays of mine have you been forced to read by now? Surely you're tired of them, Professor ," she prodded knowingly despite jotting down some more words as her foot tapped against the leg of her chair restively.
"Though I do find it fairly amusing that you're asking for cunning when after seven years of being involved in every bit of chaos in this school, and hardly ever being caught – effectively – to serve any detentions for it, that you'd believe I'd suddenly lost my touch in the home stretch and landed here by accident ?"
"You know precisely what I meant, Miss Granger. And I really don't give a rat's arse if you purposefully brought yourself here or not, your objective, now, is quite discernible – to become a Slytherin, and, apparently, try to fuck the Head of House in the process. So yet again, please cease your rambling in favour of pursuing a tactic that might actually get you what you desire. I.E., Write. Your. Fucking. Essay. And. Leave. Me. To. My. Work!" Severus punctuated each and every consonant grandiloquently before tossing in the final sprig of cinnamon he had been slicing into the pot.
He exhaled sharply before stealing a gaze at her person, only to redden before he added vehemently, "And close your fucking legs. Once more, need I to remind you, that my classroom is not a bloody French Serial, nor is it either a common whore-house, in which for you to proposition culls!"
"Mm. No proper response to that. And back to attempting to ignore me, I see," she replied with a sigh of playful dissatisfaction, as she in turn ignored his aggressive complaint, tracing the quill over the parchment still, though her legs did cross, briefly , as she watched him with growing satisfaction and approval.
"I did manage to get some obscenity out of you though…" she added.
"And is that your most recent endeavour Miss Granger? I thought you were trying to get into both, my house as well as my trousers. I'd happily trade you verbal obscenities in their stead, however. But honestly, I'd really rather..." he paused here to wipe the side of his cheek with his left thumb knuckle, before sneeringly continuing to chide her, "- you shut the bloody fuck up and permit me to finish my work, as you do yours. Your unremitting chatter is intolerable. And nothing you could think to say more would be of any interest to me, so kindly cease and desist."
"So you say now...." She drawled with a sardonic raise of her right brow, though her gaze stayed on the page as her legs uncrossed once more for spite. "But what if I were to inform you that your omission of me has actually been massively beneficial to my intimate self….? Especially whilst sitting in the back of your classroom."
Still refusing to look upon her person, and clearly, still very oblivious to just what exactly Hermione was insinuating – despite her being rather blunt in her delivery, Severus sighed with a showy look of resentment, plucking up three roses in order to de-petal them methodically.
"Then I would say that I cannot possibly see how that would be the case for as far as I've ever known you, Miss Granger, you seem to base your very existence on being paid attention to. More specifically , getting selected to answer correctly any – and every – question that might arise in any and all rooms of education. Dare I suggest that you even get off on it…?" He posed with a smug visage as he threw the thorn-ed stems into the pit before beginning to grind the petals with a mortar carefully. "If anything, it would have been ineffably frustrating for you to be so overlooked by me. Or so, I pray."
"Well it would've been had it not provided the ideal circumstances to get myself 'off' properly, and just to be clear, Professor, I do mean that in the literal sense. Not the metaphorical that you, as insinuated, have consistently taken joy in robbing me of," she replied, in a dangerously pedestrian tone, her quill unpausing despite the mischievous side-eye she endorsed as she allowed herself to study his reaction.
Severus almost started, but quickly caught himself as he was apt to recall the extremely pivotal fact that they were, indeed, role-playing. And as such, his wife was accredited to have her history be whatever the bloody hell she pleased it to be. This was not fact. So as delicious an image as it was, he needed to keep his provincial 'head' down and focused on not focusing on her. And so, haphazardly regaining his composure as he pressed his growing erection against the length of his work table, Severus furrowed his brows in asinine incredulity in order to call her on – what his character could easily have believed to be – her bluff.
"Yes, Miss Granger, if so you proclaim. But if that's the case, then I'm Dolores Umbridge's secret lover," he rolled his eyes. "You sat at the back of class that day, and kept your mouth shut, only because the class prior to it, I made a royal fool of you. And we both know that to be the case. You were pouting at me that day. Not moaning."
Two could make up historic facts in this play, he'd fundamentally decided.
Her brow arched, barely succeeding in repressing a chuckle at his insisted disbelief. He was clearly fully convinced she was fabricating the entire concept, and whilst she was certainly elaborating a bit , that was far from the case. Perhaps she would simply need to jog his corporal memory some.
"Contrary to your belief, no . I recall it quite clearly, actually. I was only in the back because I was late and you were either too busy pontificating to notice, or you were permitting it to go unnoticed out of a misplaced wave of either kindness or indifference, though I'd bet on the latter. I believe the topic was….the misuse of poisons…?"
As if the ever-intended crimp betwixt Severus' eyes could crease any more, the muscles above them flexed even further. This time he did choose to forgo his better instinct of remaining detached from her in any form, by fixing his eyes resolutely upon her figure in scrupulous research.
What...? Why was she revising their sex-play to align with an incident that had actually occurred the year before she and the trio had vanished? There was little need to do so, to be sure. The prior set up he had fashioned had been more than adequate, surely? So why the bloody change of context? Hmm . It was curious. Very curious , indeed.
"I'm loath to apologise, Miss Granger, but I do believe that either you, or I, are speaking of two separate occasions. One of which has no place 'here' ..." he lifted a brow in covert signal that she was marrying two concepts that didn't need to be.
"Now then," he squeezed his eyes shut before revolving back to his waiting cauldron still stationed in the sink with its various contents and asked, "What. Did. You. Mean. By. That. Phrasing . Just. Now?"
Hermione greeted his pupils evenly before her own narrowed lightly in larkish challenge as she waited unflappably for her dear husband to absorb the truth of her suggestion.
"Are you doubting my recollections, Professor? Mandrake berries being misused as aphrodisiacs, correct ?" She drawled in fond recollection, clearly taking amusement in his confusion, her thighs spreading further apart again, now that he was, at least, partially attentive to her.
Severus' mind was suddenly bequeathed with a variegation of rampageous thoughts. He felt pinned like a butterfly in a frame for her examination as he, for once, or perhaps thrice, had to fight to keep up with her divulgences.
So... she was connoting to the one, actual time when she had been under his tutelage that she had been tardy... and had, therefore, been resigned to sit at the back... Fine, whatever. Perhaps their time apart these last few days had built up some level of tolerance in her — as paradoxical as that notion was — and as such, she merely required a more...provocatively visceral setting in order to 'ready herself' fully. If that were the case, as piqued as he might be towards her acquisition of any denomination of insusceptibility to his venereal influence on her, he would do whatever he must now to subjugate it.
Indeed, so be it. He could tailor himself to her requirements. Obviously . Though the vein in his neck was beginning to waiver. Its blood rapidly coursed south as his eyes landed on her divine outer sex once more thanks to her most recent, implicit movements. Fuck , she certainly was glistening with arousal for him. Hardly seemed anything less than 'ready', even now... So why the need to change the narrative...?
Focus! Severus.
"No, of course not," he finally answered her shortly. "Testing your memory between the two different occasions was more the point," he eschewed with a grunt as he sucked in a narrow amount of air through a bitten lower lip of imposed self-restraint.
"Certain people are so susceptible to muddling various moments in time when they might be particularly frazzled in one form or another…. Regardless , let's please get back to the matter at hand. What precisely were you saying, Miss Granger?"
Hermione had terminated her writing entirely now. He chin rested on her supported palm, watching him with observant satisfaction as his, otherwise, brilliant mind wrestled with both her first, scandalous suggestion and the recent bit of newfound information. Both of which he still hadn't quite ascended to a level of comprehension yet. Indeed, for she could plainly see his posture stiffen and his chest rise and fall with more pronounced unsteadiness as his thoughts visibly circled the proverbial drain. Though, he did not seem to surrender to the weight of the realisation just yet.
Oh, well. There was plenty of time.
"I believe you've heard everything I've just said, sir… " she replied as her left, wedding-banded hand steadily began to slide downwards, and out of view. "You look entirely too confounded not to have."
"Then….repeat it again and in full…" Severus fought to command, though it landed far more as a plea than any showmanship of status. His thick fingers wrestled with the cauldron's handle as he did his best to ferry it over to his workspace.
"And don't play coy, Miss Granger…. Consider your answer apropos to your demonstration of those traits that are exhibited in my house. Your final endgame, after all, is to become a member of it, don't forget."
"Are Slytherins not coy , Professor Snape?" She challenged lightly with an arch to her brow, her left hand meanwhile tracing up the inner side of her thigh beneath the desk. She did not, however, wait for his response before obliging him with his request.
"I've just informed you that I've pleasured myself in the back of your classroom, under a desk not entirely unlike this one, to the sound of your determined lecturing with that sexy timbre of yours. Which, you failed entirely to notice. And yes, I do mean at that very specific moment of time."
She anchored eyes to his with purposeful intent, unblinking in their provocation should he question the clear fact of what she had just disclosed to him. Her lips upturned crookedly – but only just – in her delighted anticipation for his comprehension.
If Severus Snape had ever been gobsmacked in his life before now he surely would have amended that adjective for that of a far lesser one, for this moment in time profoundly usurped any others that might have duelled it for such a deed of ownership. Indeed, his wife, the former Hermione Jean Granger – and now very satisfactorily , the Hermione Jean Granger- Snape – had emphatically just authenticated the permanence of her confession that she had literally touched herself that day in his classroom so long ago. Not just in their little play-scene. But in real, sober life.
He was fairly certain that his cock saluted more respectfully, not to mention valiantly, than it ever had to its senior officer. So much so that his face winced in an euphoric pang at its need to be tended to. To be sure, for before he had even scarcely noticed the action, he found his hips commenced to rocking – thankfully subtly – against his work desk as his throbbing member pitifully sought any source of attrition it could in as it struggled to locate any variance of solace.
Merlin damn her to Hades, yet bless her as well. Bloody fuck.
"Oh. I. See," he croaked out aphoristically, his hands clutching the sides of the wooden table top with a strength that might have made Hercules falter. He swallowed what deemed to be a rock in his throat as his mind clambered to decide which course of response to pursue. Fuck, might as well play coy as well - especially as it decidedly was a trait of Slytherin House.
"Just the one, then?" He shot his signature left brow towards the heavens in caustic portage.
Face alight with sheer, salacious satisfaction at what was obviously a very quick physical response to her 'petite' confession, Hermione failed to completely restrain the soft beginnings of a chortle. She did, inevitably, bite her lip, halting it in it's tracks before it could evolve further, just as her left hand finished it's meandering trek up her thigh and reached its destination at her apex, no doubt within his eyeline.
"Fully and properly , yes… Until now," she replied, just as her fingers made contact with her exposed lower lips.
Severus hips bucked against the table with enough force that it rattled the contents spread across its counter manifestly. The cauldron, as heavy it was, and the knife most culpably, as his eyes vaulted downwards to where her petite fingers began to round her bundle of nerves mesmerically. Dear gods, he could practically feel how wet she was just by the sheen coating her folds were exuding, and his dominant forefingers flexed against the table as it sensorially 'touched' the phantom nub along with her own. He let out a low pang of a moan.
Well, fuck Hera in Zeus' bed there went any ounce of bloody artifice he had managed to retain thus far. How was to possibly save any type of self-promised, personal integrity, now?!
