A/N: Oh Merlin, I seriously never expected I'd reach chapter 8. This chapter though, oh my God… I have toiled over it, dreamed it, breathed it, eaten it; deciding, deliberating, dying over Severus's reaction to Hermione's little bathroom delight. I really hope I got it right and set the tone well for how things will continue. One more chapter of Severus's point of view of what has already happened before we return to the main story and that sponge bath… I am dangling that scene like the proverbial carrot. Hope you all enjoy this chapter…
Chapter 8 – The Conflicted Professor
Severus Snape was in something of a strange predicament - he was being held captive and controlled; not completely unwillingly, he surprised himself by thinking and not by anything as direct and unforgiveable as the 'Imperious curse'. No, his captor's wards had prevented that. In fact, he very much doubted that his captor was even aware that he was under her control. She was not a woman whom would seize that type of power over anyone purposely, never mind intentionally use it against anyone, not even a member of Slytherin House.
He had realised the extent of her control and really only had his first inkling of its existence by the reading of her thoughts; of hearing her mind wishing his stay in the realm of unconsciousness to be extended until she was ready to face him. Why can my life not just be simple? If he was being honest, he did need the rest; it had been just shy of three years since the Dark Lord had returned and he hadn't slept soundly since. When you are a spy for both sides of a war, sleep is a luxury one can barely afford.
It took a few minutes, after Hermione Granger left his prone form on the transfigured bed, for him to realise her control on him had slipped – it seemed weaker when she was further away from him – is it only active within certain proximity boundaries? How is it connected to only her? He raked over every memory, every book he had ever read about curses and magics concerning mind control – nothing seemed to fit the circumstances of his situation. I wonder if it could be a life-debt. I am indebted to her for my continued existence. That would certainly make her a new master. No. A new Mistress. Oh Merlin. Please do not let it be that. All I want is my freedom. Hermione took off in the direction of the bathroom, probably to relieve herself; I could do with that luxury myself, and his eyes fluttered open to scan the room. It was just as he remembered before his water-induced coma and Granger-induced sleep; dark, foreboding, unloved, just like me, he thought sadly. Miss Granger may be having strange and extremely alluring thoughts about me but her care is surely manufactured by her Gryffindor compassion. It has to be.
Wait! Wait! That damn water. She said it was from a lake, a lake that held Merlin's magic but wasn't Merlin's magic tainted – Binns said something about it in fifth year.
As he waited for Hermione to return, Snape attempted to recall, from his old 'History of Magic' lessons, the types of power Merlin had indulged in and harnessed; but even then Cuthbert Binns had been a complete bore and young Severus had zoned out in almost every lesson, his mind wandering to solve the problem of how to get more juice from a sopophorous bean – crush it, don't cut – he remembered.
Merlin was a follower of the old religion; old Gods, old magic - binding destinies, manipulating bloodlines – Avalon - Celtic mythologies; not really myths – the feud, with Morgana Le Fey, the curse. Morgana cursed Merlin's magic to… to… what? Why can't I remember? Blasted, fucking sopophorus bean.
Hearing her return, he closed his eyes and resumed to his lifeless position. But her footsteps didn't sound as though they were coming toward him; she was shuffling back down the corridor toward the exit. Where is she going now? He cast his magic into her mind for an answer – supplies. Fair enough. Gives me a chance to relieve myself at least, and stretch my legs.
As he felt the wards reseal behind her exit, he sat up easily, more easily than he had in years he realised, stood and stretched before heading for the bathroom which provided his bladder a very great sense of long-awaited emptiness. He returned to his position just as he felt the wards shimmer again at her presence.
The next hour passed by at the pace of a flesh-eating slug, he stuck pondering the specifics of Merlin's tainted magic, she pottering about, murmuring cleaning spells and conjuring logs for the fire – after she disappeared again for another twenty minutes she was being covertly monitored from the bed. He couldn't risk opening his eyes or shifting, she might be facing him but with his magic restored, he could force an outer-body-experience and observe her. She was cleaning, he discovered as his astral sight focused on the young witch; scrubbing the floor it would seem, scrubbing and humming. He recognised the tune - an old Bonnie Tyler song his mother used to sing, something about a hero. His astral self scoffed; young bloody witches and their unrealistic expectations of men. But when her humming switched to actual singing her voice was powerful, desperate for what the lyrics described, determined to find herself someone worthy as if only the type of man the song was defining could seduce her…
"I need a hero; I'm holding out for a hero till the end of the night… he's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast and he's gotta be fresh from the fight…."
He couldn't help himself, he had to look from his own body, he had to hear the vibration of her voice echo in his chest, curl around his heart... bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses. Little minx. Is she casting love spells, lust spells in music…? Back in his body he certainly felt bewitched by her voice, ensnared by the lyrics. He opened his eyes and shifted slightly to watch
What he saw was an image that would stay with him forever… she was facing away from him – thankfully – but in the moments of him returning to his body she had removed her pale pink hoody and now he could see the hip-hugging jeans and a strappy green vest top that was riding up to reveal her lower back, which was branded with a tattoo – of a book. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She was bending over on her hands and knees; he refused to shift his dark, appraising eyes skyward for an eye roll and miss even a second of those sweetly rounded, denim-clad orbs which comprised her pretty heart-shaped bottom. His gaze settled to watch its quarry wriggle to the melody of her song but as she continued the chorus, she suddenly reared up on her knees. She was holding a scrubbing brush like a microphone as her endless chestnut curls flew loose and wild from the unsecured bun on her head as she belted out the remainder of the song…
"I need a hero… I'm holding out for a hero till the morning light. He's gotta be sure, and it's gotta be soon. He's gotta be larger than life… larger than life."
His mind was gone; mesmerised by her swaying hips, lost in the power and surety of her strong, melodic voice; it was a balm, is she singing about me? To me? She returned to humming the instrumental bridge between chorus and second verse and his mind returned enough from the haze of lust to listen to more lyrics when she seamlessly shifted back into singing…
"Somewhere after midnight, in my wildest fantasy. Somewhere just beyond my reach, there's someone reaching back for me. Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat…"
Perhaps her romanticised version of my role as a spy.
"It's gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet…"
Yes, definitely a romanticised account of my role. Although, if I wanted to, easy enough to play to that version… if it's what she wants. I do owe her for saving my life, even if she does keep paralysing me. She really does seem quite infatuated. It can't be healthy. I shouldn't encourage it but…
She began the chorus again, masterfully, controlling every word, meaning every word, Severus could feel the emotion between her words and he knew he would give her anything she wanted, he had succumb.
I'm hers.
She finished the song but continued to hum the tune for the next half an hour as she scrubbed at the floor with more vigour than a house-elf. He was impressed and allowed himself to watch her without reprieve. She was so entranced by her work, she didn't even seem to notice he was in a different position. Eventually though, he begrudging slipped back to how he lay before – knowing she was not ready for him to be awake had stopped being the reason - mentally cursing this need he had developed to keep her from discovering the truth. He felt she would reveal more if, to her, he remained unconscious.
She spent the next few hours popping in and out of the shack, casting cleaning charms, transfiguring all manner of useful things. He listened as she worked, humming to herself, occasionally bursting into a myriad of lyrics from so many different genres he was amazed they could all be to her taste – hearing her attempt to rap was possibly the most amusing moment of his life. His mind drifted from in and out of sleep, so comfortable on the little bed, so blissful listening to Miss Granger make the Shrieking Shack more liveable – it was as if she was playing 'house'.
His mind had just awoken again, for the third time in the last two hours by her belting out the end of Think Twice by Celine Dion – her choice in music seemed to have a theme, convincing him she was worth his romantic interest. He already knew that, although he loathed himself for it. I would ruin her life, was all that kept playing on a loop in the back of his mind.
She was approaching the bed again, he could hear her breathlessness from the note she had just wrung from her lungs. It felt like she watched him for a week; he held himself perfectly still, appearing at ease as his heart hammered a tango in his chest. She was still moving closer and then…
Body heat was pressing against him; no, not pressing, hovering; she was leaning over him… he felt her thoughts, questioning…
'Is this looming? Like he does.'
It took every ounce of control for him not to burst out laughing. Her face was too close, she would discern even the faintest twitch of his lips and so he held his breath, held himself so still it was as if he had taken a Draught of Living Death. His insides quivered with the tension of it and then it didn't matter. Nothing mattered because there was a touch, a brush of her lips, feather light across his left cheekbone and Gods how it burned. The feel of her so close and yet so out of reach, the caress of her lips was everything, intoxicating, hot and just about damn well torturous.
He couldn't resist. Honestly, truly he couldn't. He almost, almost, tried to. His mind dove into hers again; he felt overwhelming disappoint from every fibre of her being. What on earth did she have to be disappointed about? She felt incredible. But then a horrifically depressing thought caught on the fabric of his feelings: what if she didn't feel it? Then she was rationalising - 'it's not like this is Sleeping Beauty' – and it made sense; she was romanticising again; wanting him to awaken at her kiss. How can she hold such blissful ignorance, such Disney-branded innocence after a war? It was more disarming to him than Expelliarmus.
He was lost in his astonishment, warring with his own self-loathing and fruitlessly attempting to still his desire for her – she is barely of age, you old pervert, he told himself. Get a grip and stop this pitiful lusting. Her feelings are misguided and irrelevant. You are a grown-arse man and you will stop this insanity this instant. She deserves better, she deserves someone her own age, someone handsome who can give her all she needs, who can be everything she wants. You, Severus Tobias Snape are not that man.
Adrift in his mental berating as he was while maintaining the stillness and even breathing of sleep, he did not notice her once more slip away from him, or her Accio'ing of several bathing items from her bottomless bag of everything and head towards the bathroom. If he had been aware of her intentions as she left his company, his mind may not have followed quite so closely. But, he hadn't and so it had.
Relief was the next thing he sensed, jarring him from his self-hatred. When did she leave the room? When did my mind lose focus on her whereabouts? Oops. Full bladder. Probably shouldn't stay for this bit.
He respectfully retreated a little, just outside the scope of detailed thoughts.
Anticipation. Of?
Expectation. For?
Relief. Again. Oh! She's… she's…
Delight. Bathing. Oh dear sweet Salazar. She's naked right now.
You lecherous old man. STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! Severus scolded himself. You are old enough to be her father, this is ridiculous. This stupid fascination, this insane desire for her has to stop. It's temporary, it's only because she saved your life, it's because she's a vibrant young thing that showed a little affection. Her feelings are fuelled by adrenaline and misplaced guilt for not knowing you were trying to save Potter all along. Her feelings will fade, as will these desires… he rationalised.
It took a great amount of effort and steeled conviction but he managed to just about hurl himself, forcefully from her mind and back into his own body. Unfortunately, that body had chosen not to listen to the rationalisations of his mind and was sporting possibly the most devastatingly painful erection Severus had ever experienced. He cringed at the betrayal of the engorged appendage. You are disgusting, man. Think of something else, anything else, NOW!
Minerva in a showgirl costume, doing the can-can, in stockings… Oh dear Gods, that really should've worked. Ok, think…
Dolores Umbridge in a pink frilly negligee…
Giving Albus head… Severus gagged but his cock annoyingly didn't seem to mind such a mental image; it remained hard and continued to pulse, much to its owner's chagrin.
Voldemort doing the can-can - in nothing but stockings… More gagging but… Finally!
Severus's relief and disgust at the mental image he had just conjured was short lived and just as his turgid member was reaching half-mast, he heard its siren call - a soft moan echoing from the bathroom and assaulting his ears. Ensnaring the senses indeed, Miss Granger.
He fought the increasingly desperate urge to take himself in hand, to do as she was doing and relieve himself in the most self-abusing way. He fought it like the skilled occlumens he was, he fought it with the motivation of thinking himself better than such debasement and he was succeeding… one minute, two… attempting to block her sweet breathlessness and endearing proclamations to Merlin and the Gods. Yes! I am a master of my body once more, I shall not give in to such baser instincts. I am in con-…
"Oh! Oh, Severus…"
Any level of control he had gained over his needs and desires snapped with a vengeance at the sound of her mewling utterance of his name. He was gone; any and all protests vanquished with her single exclamation of ecstasy. His slowly descending cock soared back into life at the sound and within seconds his hands had reached under his robes, into his waistband to the exultant joy of the solid mass of flesh his Gryffindor witch had inspired.
He couldn't risk her finding him in such a state, although she probably wouldn't mind; he kept his trousers fixed, which limited his movement but he had been doing this for twenty-five years, he knew how to work around such restrictions. He grasped his cock tightly and pumped himself fast and hard, imagining her own movements between her silken folds. He pictured her dusty pink nipples tightening with the arousal he caused her as he licked them, pinched and nipped at their delicious little pebbled points. Oh, how he wanted her…
'Yes… oh, yes, Severus, right there…don't stop, Professor, please. '
Her thoughts of begging him for orgasm had come to him unbidden. He wasn't in her mind. She had thrown those words, those adorable, sexy as hell pleas to him – knowingly or not he was unaware but it was undoing. His grasp tightened further on his seconds from climax length and with two more successive pumps, he thrust into his own hand and came with a growl which to his credit was a mere hairs breadth from silent.
His return - from the ecstatic, stratospheric high her begging had catapulted him into – was welcomed by the sound of Hermione's own transcendent release. A long, loud feral scream shuddered through the shack and echoed in Severus's chest. It was beyond simple physical pleasure, beyond the releasing act of gratifying a frustration; it was her letting go of the past, the relief of surviving the war, shedding the fear and despair of the last year – it was amazing, it was primal, it was everything. She was everything. Severus's heart sank – I'm doomed.
After a moment to recover himself a little more fully, the sound of her pleasure still ringing in his ears, longer after the reality of it had subsided, Severus cleaned himself up wandlessly and retired back to 'position' so the approaching witch would be non-the-wiser about his activities or eavesdropping – not that he could have possibly not heard her.
He felt the bed sink beside him and her thoughts were so clear now she was so near, he really didn't have a need for legillemency, her mind was an open book.
'Not sure I could quite explain away getting myself off in the next room whilst he was asleep'
He delves just a little, to her deeper thoughts.
'Most intense orgasm of my life, practically like having three at once, and I was thinking about Professor Snape – insane'.
Smugness tickled his consciousness. Something he wasn't used to when it came to the sexuality of witches but that smugness was about to be overwritten…
"And as for you," he felt her shift, turning toward him, he assumed, "you listen to me, Severus Snape; you are going to love me, I assure you that you have no choice in the matter because I refuse to allow you not to. But more importantly, and I hope you can hear this, I am going to love you like no-one has ever loved anyone before; there will be books written about the power of my love, our love; and if no-one else writes books about how much I want you, about how I survived fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement and saved your horrible little godson just for you, then I will write it myself. 'Of Sneers and Stalking in Billowing Robes', a love story by Hermione Granger."
She chuckled then; a beautiful sound of mirth and self-congratulation. He was enjoying her little speech, savouring her declarations and promises… what could possibly have brought all these feelings out in her? She certainly never felt this way in my classes, did she? No! Surely, I'd have felt it; the woman is incapable of hiding an emotion or a thought. Could she be under this tainted magic of Merlin's too? What if she drank that infernal water too? It would explain how amazing she looks after months on the run. It's time. I'm awake and mobile… I should just ask her…
As his eyes twitched, about to open, she continued…
"I know you're going to try and push me away; you'll snipe, and sneer and spew your venom; you'll insult me and belittle me and call me an insufferable little know-it-all; I don't care. You can throw as much of your poison at me as you like, and when you're done and when you're ready, I'll be waiting. Not for an apology because I know you need to get all that nasty shit out of your system. I'll be waiting to welcome you into my heart, into my arms, into my bed because there's something you still don't know… in my mind, and in my heart, you're already there."
Snape was in shock. He'd suspected, he'd assumed that her feelings were temporary, a juvenile crush, a young woman's first flirtation in deeper feelings perhaps but never, in all his years and experience had he expected those words. Her complete acceptance of his darker tendencies, a mature approach to wanting him, waiting for him, allowing him time to be at her level of emotions on his own terms. It was overwhelming. It was too much. He wanted to cry with joy at the possibility to she offered and hang his head in shame for doubting her.
She was moving away again and he guessed that her little speech was over. He hated it when she moved away from him but he tried to assume there was a good reason, even if his instinct was to doubt it.
He heard rummaging – her handbag? Then something thrown on the bed near him.
"No-one should sleep in boots, Professor." She stated cheerily as she set about removing them. Careful Miss Granger, please be careful. My feet are very ticklish. I doubt the resulting involuntary kick to the face you might inspire with such a sensation would not be welcome.
Moments later his boots were removed but her mind was thinking loudly again…
'Hmmm, big feet. I wonder if that saying is true about big feet meaning big… stop it Hermione. You're better than that'.
'No I'm not.'
Knowing she was at the other end of the bed and could not see his face, Severus allowed his eyebrows to raise at her thoughts. It had been too many hours since he had used his signature expression and he missed it, especially with how many times Hermione Granger's thoughts and words had warranted such a face.
He felt a ripple of magic beneath him, then around him; he was in mid-air – he forced himself to trust her and was rewarded by being lowered gently back down and covered by the duvet. He wasn't cold at all but he had been unable to get himself under the duvet without giving away his consciousness.
She was thinking again…
'Now, do I walk all the way around this huge bed in my very exhausted state or do I just climb over him to get to my side. Hmmmm, choices, choices.'
Why you little minx…
He felt her clambering near him, shifting her knees and then she stopped, straddling his thighs…
Oh this can't end well… he thought as his cock twitched again at the weight of her resting her bottom on his legs.
'Making a memory' he heard the words from her mind, 'just in case I never get him to…'
Then the pressure on his legs was gone – he missed it – and the space beside him dipped slightly from her presence and the pop of a plastic container could be heard very nearby. Followed moments later by the crunching of cookies.
Within ten minutes, the crunching had ceased. She had turned herself towards his body as he lay on his back, placed her head on his chest and his arm resting down her back.
Another ten minutes and she was sleeping, breath warm on his chest through his robes.
Severus Snape had never felt happier or more content in his life. He joined her in sleep, willingly.