For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 19: Hurt and Comfort

The room which she entered from his study was a cosy sitting room dominated by a massive fireplace. Before the fireplace was a loveseat upholstered in burgundy brocade, flanked on either side by bottle green armchairs with high backs. The rug upon the stone floor was a thick woollen oriental, dark green and figured in wine red and gold.

But the most amazing feature of the room, to Hermione's way of thinking, was the proliferation of bulging bookshelves which lined every inch of available wall space. She saw leather-bound volumes in every colour, some with writing on the spines in languages other than English, some even marked by ancient runes. She also saw a plethora of textbooks on every subject and every level, from the simple overviews of the first-year curriculum to thick, promising-looking texts of an undoubtedly advanced level of study. Most surprising of all were the familiar paperback books by Muggle authors, two of which rested upon a table beside one of the armchairs—but before she had the chance to investigate their titles, a voice called to her from the next room.

'Headmaster?'

Hermione advanced to the doorway. 'No, sir, it's me—Hermione.'

He lay sprawled upon the double bed, his twin to her journal clutched in one ink-smeared hand. He had managed to shed his cloak—Death Eater! her mind screamed as she recognised the hooded garment—and his coat, both of which were abandoned on the plain dark rug beside his bed. He was still wearing a white broadcloth shirt, unbuttoned to reveal pale flesh, and black wool trousers above his booted feet.

Hermione noted it all as she hurried toward him, her heart in throat. His face was haggard and grey, twisted with pain, and the flesh of his chest was smeared with bright red blood.

'Sir!' she gasped, stopping at the edge of his bed, afraid to touch him. 'What happened?'

His hand darted out and closed over her wrist, his black eyes glittering malevolently from his ashen face. 'Can't go to Poppy,' he said. 'She'll tell him—and I can't see him now—not strong enough.'

His head fell back on his pillows, and his eyes closed as he wheezed open-mouthed panting breaths, but he did not release his hold upon her wrist. Hermione swallowed past the fear in her throat. 'Sir, please let me fetch Madam Pomfrey—I don't know what to do!'

His grip tightened painfully, and Hermione became aware of the deadly strength in those long fingers—he could undoubtedly snap her wrist if he chose.

'No,' he panted, 'you help.' His eyes opened again, and she was riveted by their burning intensity. 'Help me,' he insisted.

'I don't know what happened to you,' she whimpered, scrabbling to push his grip from her wrist. 'I don't know what to do.' He countered her efforts to remove his hand from her arm by tightening yet again, and she cried out in pain. 'You're hurting me!'

Immediately he released her, only to catch her fingers and bring them to his lips, a new pain passing across his features. 'Forgive me,' he said. Then, 'Help me.'

'Tell me what to do,' she responded as he nursed her hand to his cheek, rubbing his stubbled face against her sensitive fingers.

'Healing potion for internal injury,' he said, and Hermione felt as if someone had poured ice water in her veins. He had internal injuries? He said, 'In locked cabinet in bathroom. Pale blue.'

Hermione looked around the room and saw the door to the bathroom behind her. 'How do I unlock the cabinet?'

'Password is lethe,' he gasped, turning his face away from her as pain wracked him.

Hermione gently disentangled her fingers and hurried into the bathroom, lighting the gas lamp with a wave of her wand. Directly above the sink, where most people hung mirrors, a painting of a coiling green serpent fronted a deep cabinet. Hermione stared at the snake for a moment before saying, 'Lethe.'

The painting swung forward, and Hermione was confronted by a very well-stocked potions cupboard. The potions were meticulously labelled in her professor's handwriting, but she did not bother to read the names; her eye sought out the pale blue formula, verified the name on it, and she rushed back to Professor Snape, uncorking it as she scurried.

'Can you lift your head to swallow it?' she asked, and he raised himself on his elbows, manfully swallowing the nasty-smelling stuff she poured into his mouth.

'Now,' he said, his head sagging again onto the pillow, 'pain potion.'

'The pink one?' she asked, thinking of the potion Madam Pomfrey gave for headaches.

'Soulagement,' he said. 'Narcotic. It's clear.'

Hermione returned to the open cupboard, first snatching up a phial of Veritaserum before she found the tiny one labelled Soulagement. Then she was beside him again, pouring the potion into his mouth. This one he snatched from her hand, sucking on the bottle when it was empty, his tongue licking the residue from the lip of the phial.

Then his head fell softly onto his pillow, his face relaxing.

'Better?' she whispered, but he was unconscious.

Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked his beard-roughened face, smoothing his stringy, oily hair away from his brow. Who had hurt him? And what had they done to him? And why? It was simply horrific.

He slept heavily, the narcotic pain potion bringing him the relief he needed. Hermione shifted around to look at his body. Could she undress him and clean his wounds without disturbing him? She rather thought she would be able to do it. Tentatively, she reached out and twitched the sides of his shirt open, revealing his chest and belly down to his trousers. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the body she had so longed to see and touch—and to see the angry slashes, as if someone had sliced at him with a penknife, did nothing to detract from the beauty of his lean, toned frame. Working with a feather-light touch, she magically cleansed the wounds, then healed them, wielding her wand surely over his torso, which was already criss-crossed with the pale stripes of scars from old injuries long healed.

When she had completely healed the cuts, she dared simply to stroke down his sternum through the sparse black hairs growing between his nipples. Were his nipples sensitive, as hers were? Would it be wrong to lick them while he was sleeping? She satisfied herself for now by stroking over his nipples and trailing her hands down his ribcage, noting as she did so that he was far too thin. Next she stroked the plane of his stomach, dipping a finger in his navel, then following the line of dark, thickening hair leading down into his trousers.

Wouldn't he be more comfortable if she unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers off? She would leave his underpants on him, of course, but wouldn't it be better for him not to be burdened with the heavy clothing? Her fingertips lingered on the silver of his belt buckle, and she reminisced about the times he bent her over and spanked her naked bottom with this belt. Her quim tingled with the memory, and she longed to reach her hand down into his pants and touch him, stroke him and pleasure him as he had done for her so many times.

Then she noticed the smear of blood on her fingertip, and looking down, she saw with distaste that she had his blood on her blouse. She stood up from the bed and recognised her thoughts for what they were: she had been considering molesting her sleeping, injured professor while he was helpless to defend himself. What was wrong with her?

She went into his bathroom and closed the potions cupboard, staying to scrub her hands at the sink. She really needed a bath and something clean to wear, but she didn't want to leave him. She wasn't sure what was wrong with him or how long he would sleep—she didn't want him to wake up and find her gone. Still, she could bathe in his bathtub and leave the door open—she would surely hear him if he woke and stirred.

She undressed, studying her professor's personal bathroom. The old claw-footed tub was separate from the more modern shower, which he obviously used more often. In the shower was a tall, clear container of a viscous fluid that looked like shampoo—did he create his own? —and in its dish, a cake of soap the scent of which she had recognised when she entered the bathroom, for he always smelled of it. She twisted the taps to fill the tube and noticed it did not have soap, so she reached into the shower and lifted his from its holder, smiling at the familiar fragrance. She magicked her hair up and out of her way, then climbed into the warm bathwater and began to bathe with his soap, feeling as if his hands were the ones stroking her flesh.

Clean and wrapped in a fluffy white bath towel, Hermione went into the bedroom again and stood beside the bed, watching her professor sleep. When she was convinced that he was resting comfortably, she looked about the room, curiosity kicking in now that the crisis was past.

The stone walls were hung on all sides by old tapestries depicting scenes from wizarding lore. Many of the scenes were improbable at best, and Hermione guessed that her professor had chosen to hang the tapestries for the protection they provided from the cold walls of the underwater room. The rug here was not as nice as the one in the sitting room, being an unadorned dark green. The double bed was in the centre of the far wall with bedside tables on either side. The duvet upon which the professor lay was dark green, as well, although his pillowcase was crisp white linen. There was a chest of drawers, upon the top of which was a comb, a ceramic bowl containing a handful of Sickles, an open wooden box containing several sets of cufflinks, and one framed photograph. Hermione was instantly drawn to the photograph, though she did not touch it.

In the simple silver frame, a weedy-looking boy with a large hooked nose and untidy long black hair stood beside a thin-lipped, heavy-jawed woman. On the other side of the boy was a sleeve and the ragged edge of the photograph, where it had been ripped. Had Professor Snape ripped his father out of the picture, or had it been someone else? What had been special about this day, that a photograph had been taken? Hermione bent closer to the picture and saw that the boy held before him a wand, held it proudly, his eyes shining in the wizarding photograph as he pivoted and brandished it. His mother frowned and reprimanded him, but the boy with his brand new wand paid her no mind. Hermione smiled to see the devilish grin the boy wore when he waved his wand and produced a lovely shower of multi-coloured sparks.

Hermione shivered with the cold as the warmth of her bath faded away, and she turned to the wardrobe, opening it, hoping to find a dressing gown. The scent of the professor's aftershave wafted out the wardrobe door, and Hermione took a deep breath, filling her lungs with it. Within, she saw his black coats and black trousers hung neatly side-by-side. She saw a glimmer of satin and pulled a simple black dressing gown from its hanger, wrapping herself in it and turning the sleeves back to free her hands. It was covering, but it was not particularly warm, so if she was going to watch over him tonight, it was going to be from beneath the bedcovers.

Determinedly, Hermione took up her wand and levitated her professor, making sure her spell was steady before hastening to turn down the bedclothes. When she had him lying upon his back, clothed in only his trousers and socks, she pulled the covers up to his shoulders and went to the other side of the bed to slide in beside him. It was warm beneath the duvet and blankets, and although she meant to stay awake and keep watch over him, she was soon asleep, naturally gravitating across the bed to the sure source of warmth provided by the sleeping Severus Snape.


Desire filled her as she floated on a cloud of bliss. Sensations of pleasure flooded her body, tingling along her sensory pathways, and she murmured in her sleep, feeling arousal as it pooled in her quim. She reached for the source and found it at her breast; her fingers twined in the hair and she tugged, pressing her breast more firmly into the suckling mouth. A talented tongue laved her nipples, back and forth, back and forth, and the incredible sensation brought a moan from her throat as she began to wriggle her hips, seeking sensation for her quim.

'Greedy,' the raspy voice said, and Hermione was awake in a strange room, lying upon her side in bed with someone burrowing into the dressing gown she wore, seeking out and finding her breasts, licking and sucking and driving her wild.

'Sir,' she said, but he only hummed contently as he nuzzled and suckled; by the light of the single candle, Hermione could see his pale shoulders bunch as he used his hands to push her breasts together, seeking to pull both nipples into his mouth at once. He succeeded with a growl of satisfaction, and she cried out at the intensity of the sensation, suddenly needing a cock inside of her more than anything else she could imagine. 'Please,' she breathed, shifting the lower part of her body closer to his.

He stilled her with one hand, snaking down to untie the dressing gown and spread it open, baring her to his fevered gaze. She placed her hand then upon his forehead, realising he was feverish—this was a fever dream, for him.

'Stop,' she said, but his questing fingers found her quim, and he claimed her, fingering her expertly as his mouth sought and found again her nipple, still slick with his saliva.

Hermione knew it was wrong—somehow, she should make him stop and lie back and rest—but she was so aroused, so fucking hot from his nipple sucking madness that she could only spread her legs and let him finger fuck her.

'That's right,' he purred, listening to her moaning response to his touches. His teeth scraped lightly over her tightly furled nipple, and she gasped. 'Good girl,' he praised, and sucked her nipple into his mouth even as his thumb circled her clitoris.

Hermione writhed beneath his ministrations, managing only to caress his shoulders and tangle her hands in his hair, unable to reach any other part of him as he pleasured her. Dear Merlin, she would do something for him after this—pump her hand up and down his cock, or lick and suck him, yes she would …

He released her nipple and nuzzled beneath the curve of her breast, sucking the soft skin into his mouth, exerting the suction that would mark her with his love bite, but all she could do was buck against his hand again and again and again until she climaxed, for which she was rewarded by the hand which cupped her mound with a gentle squeeze.

'Good girl,' he murmured again, his large nose burrowing between her breasts.

'Let me …' she began, trying to reach for him, but he was asleep again, clinging to her as if she were his own personal breasted teddy.


When next they woke, he was groaning and rolling away from her, but not before she felt the terrible burning fever in his face.

'Help me to the bathroom,' he said, rising shakily to a sitting position.

Hermione hurried around the bed, retying the dressing gown as she went. She was surprised that he was well enough to sit up, but obviously the healing potion was doing its job. What she couldn't understand was his fever—what was causing it?

When she got him settled again in his bed after he used the facilities, he clutched a rainbow of potions from his cupboard in one hand. He fixed his glittering, feverish gaze upon her. 'Go to class,' he said, 'but come back to me this afternoon with food. I should be able to eat by then.'

Hermione took the phials from him and lined them up on the tabletop within his reach. 'Let me call Madam Pomfrey for you,' she pled.

'No,' he said and downed the light blue potion for healing internal injuries.

'I could ask the Headmaster to come see you,' she tried again, accepting the empty phial from him.

'No!' he snapped, closing his eyes wearily. 'I can't see Poppy because I won't see Dumbledore—not until I've recovered some of my strength.'

She cupped his cheek. 'But I'm worried about your fever,' she explained.

His eyes opened he managed half a smile. 'The fever means the internal injuries are healing,' he assured her.

'How were you injured?' she asked, wishing she could stay with him.

His eyelids drifted closed again. 'I'll tell you later—when you come back with food.' His voice sounded strained and weary.

'But you need food now!' she protested.

'No, I need sleep,' he mumbled, turning on his side. His eyes opened again, and he looked into her eyes. 'Come back this afternoon and bring me food—and I'll lick your pretty little cunt until you come all over my face.'

Hermione chuckled weakly, not wanting to leave him alone, but knowing she would have to go—there would be no way for her to miss an entire day of classes without raising questions she did not want to try to answer. 'Well, when you put it like that,' she said softly.

He tugged at her dressing gown. 'Leave it with me,' he said.

Hermione stood and slipped out of it. 'Of course I'll leave it with you—it's yours,' she teased.

He lifted the garment to his face, inhaling deeply. 'Smells like you,' he said—then a spasm crossed his face, and Hermione knew he was in pain again.

She poured the pain potion into his mouth and he subsided onto his pillow. She dressed in yesterday's clothes, leaving him sleeping like the dead as she crept out into the castle corridors to make her way back to her room and prepare for her day.


A/N: Soulagement is, according to Babelfish, French for 'relief'.

More lemons next chapter, with more explanations of how he came to be in this condition. Next chapter will contain a scene made-to-order for Miss Lulabelle and RedSkyAtNight. But was that enough naked!Snape for you, Miss MollysSister?

Thank you all so much for your reviews—I read them immediately, each time I get one. Reviews feed the Muse!