For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 32: Watching and Waiting
Hermione stirred, noting the cramp in her neck. She shifted her shoulders, slowly straightening. She had fallen asleep sitting up, and she was sore all through her back. Slowly, she opened her eyes and cried out when she saw the face of a house-elf directly in front of her.
The house-elf jumped back in fright, wringing his hands and speaking in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. 'Wretch is sorry, Miss!' he said nervously, twisting his fingers in his Hogwarts tea towel. 'Professor Snape is saying Miss is to be at breakfast, and breakfast is now.'
Hermione struggled upright, casting off the emerald green blanket which covered her, glad that she had dressed before falling asleep. 'The professor's here?' she asked the elf. 'Where is he?'
Wretch shook his head. 'No, Miss—Professor Snape is telling Wretch before. If Miss is not in her room in the morning, Wretch is to tell Miss to go to breakfast.'
Hermione frowned. 'When did he give you these instructions, Wretch?'
'At the start of the holiday,' Wretch explained anxiously. 'Miss is revising in the professor's study and might sleep there, sometimes. If the professor is not in, Wretch is to tell Miss to go to breakfast.'
Hermione rubbed her eyes, wishing it all made a bit more sense to her. 'How do you know when the professor is gone?' she said.
'Wretch looks after Professor Snape,' the house-elf informed her. 'Wretch knows when the professor is here and when he is gone.'
Hermione stared at the little creature with bleary eyes. It must be some form of house-elf magic, to know when their charges were present or absent. At any rate, she needed to make an appearance at breakfast since she had missed dinner the night before.
'Thank you, Wretch,' Hermione said, standing up and slipping her cold feet into her shoes. 'I'll go to breakfast, now.'
Wretch bowed very low before Disapparating with a crack. Hermione made her way out of the professor's study and through his office into the dank corridor. She would wonder later where, exactly, Severus Snape had spent the night and what she could do about it.
The day was interminable. She bathed, napped, notated her journal of the previous night's food and sleep, and after lunch, at which Professor Snape did not appear, she forced herself to go to the library, where she revised. She concentrated on Defence, knowing it was her weakest subject—but really, it wasn't the book learning part in which she was deficient, was it? She had the theory down cold. It was the actual spell-casting in which she fell short of her goals—short of Harry, she acknowledged sourly—and revising wouldn't improve those skills. Only practice would, and it was so much easier to practice with a partner.
Defensive spells weren't the only thing that one could practice more effectively with a partner …
She let herself drift into a delightful dream, thinking about the information she had absorbed from The Sensuous Symmetry of Submission and how it applied to her and her Dominant. There had been a whole chapter on anal sex. Reading it had made Hermione feel uncomfortable but seeing the illustrations of the horribly-named butt plugs and reading about how they were used to prepare the woman for it had been helpful. Apparently, it was an act of supreme submission, to permit one's Master to 'go' where no one before had been—to allow him to possess her completely, in each of the three available orifices—and certainly, t's comments about it had mirrored Hermione's feelings. Master Maximus' submissive, t, had been repulsed and afraid when first presented with the notion, but she had trusted in her Master, and he had carefully and methodically prepared her for it over a period of time. The description of how it had made t feel to yield to Master Maximus in this way had made Hermione ache to do it, if for no other reason than to prove her desire to submit to her Dominant … to her Master.
But even more than the anal sex, she had found the description of other practices so darkly arousing that the images had peppered her dreams. The notion of placing herself completely in the power of Severus Snape—to allow him to command the details of her daily life, to hold her accountable for obedience, to punish and reward her—simply thinking about such things made her feel weak in the knees. Many of the acts described by t and Master Maximus, Hermione had already experienced to some degree or another—but what would it be like to submit to sustained time periods of instruction and obedience? Would it be for Hermione as it had been for t, that in losing herself in her submission, she would find her true place in the world?
Merlin help her, she wanted to find out. The more she gave, the more she received, and it always and forever left her wanting more.
She arrived in the Great Hall just as dinner was served, but her furtive glance at the head table did not show the presence of her professor. A cold, sick fear gripped her. Had he run off with Taffy Smith, that stupid shop girl? Was he having such a good time fucking the pretty blond woman through the mattress that he couldn't bother to return to the castle?
Stop it! she chastised herself. He has said repeatedly that his relationship with her is not sexual.
Listlessly spooning sprouts onto her plate, her mind raced through other likely explanations for his absence, but only one made sense: Voldemort had called for him.
Dear God, please don't let them hurt him, she thought, dragging her fork through her mashed potatoes in figure-eights. Last time, he had required two days to recover from the madman's attentions. What if it was worse, this time?
What if he never came back?
Pushing her plate away, she poured a cup of tea instead, sweetening it and adding a splash of milk. She sipped her tea meditatively, trying to plan for eventualities. Did she dare to ask the Headmaster where Professor Snape was? Would he answer her as an adult—as someone closely associated with the Order of the Phoenix—or as a student? Did she dare to draw attention to herself in relation to her professor?
She glanced back at the staff table, her eyes flitting painfully past the empty chair where Professor Snape usually sat, and she watched Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall conversing soberly. Were they wondering the same thing she was? Wondering where their Potions master had got himself off to?
Resolutely, she drained her teacup and pushed it from her. She would not approach the other professors with her question—not yet. It would not do to betray too much interest in the Potions master's whereabouts. It would be better to bide her time and hope for the best.
She spent a restless evening in her room at the top of Gryffindor Tower, trying to read, but with eyes wandering persistently to the window, watching, ever watching, for her professor to return. She longed for him, wherever he had been, to return, so that she might see his face and hear his voice.
At last, she gave in and lay down upon her bed fully dressed, drifting off into uneasy sleep filled with incoherent dreams. When she heard the urgent voice, she thought it was a dream, as well.
'Miss! Wake up!'
Hermione's eyes opened, and in the firelight, she saw Wretch the house-elf standing by her bed, his tea towel covered in blackish paint. She struggled to make sense of his presence.
'Is it time for breakfast?' she asked muzzily.
'Professor Snape is needing Miss,' Wretch said urgently. 'Miss is to come with Wretch right now!'
Hermione struggled into a sitting position. 'Where is he?' she asked, her heart suddenly galloping in her chest.
'Professor Snape is in his rooms, Miss,' Wretch said, fidgeting. 'Please to come now!'
Hermione swung her feet over the bedside and stuffed them into trainers, then she was on her feet and heading for her door. A cold, spindly-fingered hand closed over the arm of her jumper.
'It is faster if Miss comes with Wretch,' the house-elf said.
'How?' Hermione asked, but before she understood what was happening, she heard a loud crack and was in the suffocating blackness of Apparition.
When she was steady again on her feet, she opened her eyes to see that she was standing in Professor Snape's bedroom, every candle in the room lit, flooding the room with light. Wretch released her arm, and looking down at him, she could now see that his tea towel was not splashed with black paint, but was covered in a dark red, glistening substance that looked very much like …
She spun around and saw Professor Snape sprawled on his bed, his face streaked with blood, his torn jumper saturated with it.
'Sir!' she cried, hurrying to him.
He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, and he spoke in a strained tone. 'You did well, Wretch. You may go.'
The house-elf did not squabble but popped out of sight, and Hermione was left alone with her professor. His overly bright eyes fastened on her face. 'Will you help me?' he rasped.
Hermione did not answer but ran to the bathroom, murmuring the password to open the snake painting, behind which the potions cupboard lay. She grabbed potions from the shelves and ran back to him.
'I've brought Blood-Replenishing Potion, Soulagement for pain, and the one for internal injuries,' she said.
'No internal injuries,' he told her. 'All external, this time around.' His lip twisted in the parody of a smile, and Hermione's heart was wrenched.
'Let me help you!' she cried, leaning forward to smooth his matted hair from his sweaty forehead. 'Which one first?'
'Blood-Replenishing,' he said and opened his lips to swallow the liquid she poured into his mouth. 'Now Soulagement,' he said, 'but only half the phial—I don't want to sleep.'
Hermione administered half the phial, then recapped it and watched as pain relief leached some of the strain from her professor's face. 'Now what?' she asked, glancing down fearfully at the blood-soaked jumper.
'Shower,' he croaked, struggling to sit up.
'Oh, sir!' she cried, torn between helping him up and pushing him back down. 'Don't you think you should stay in bed?'
He shook his head, and his stringy, dirty hair whipped from side to side. 'Have to wash off the blood,' he managed, 'so we can see to heal the wound.'
Determinedly, he gained his feet, and when he swayed, Hermione stepped close and wrapped her arm about his waist, supporting him. This close to him, the coppery smell of the blood was horrible, and her stomach clenched.
'Can't I just do a Cleansing Spell?' she asked, sagging under his weight as he tried to take a step.
'This is better,' he insisted.
'Fine,' she muttered, keeping comments about stubborn men to herself. With her free hand, she drew her wand and said, 'Locomotor professor!'
He lifted a few inches from the floor, and Hermione grasped him firmly about the waist and guided him into the bathroom, ordering him to duck his head as they passed through the doorway. She was startled when he chuckled—she had been a bit afraid he would be angry about the indignity, but it was the only way she could think of to move him by herself!
'Clever girl,' he said as she began to unfasten his belt and tug his trousers and pants off, quickly followed by his socks. 'I've never been moved like a piece of furniture before.'
Hermione stared at the ruined jumper, knowing she couldn't reach high enough to pull it over his head. With a wave of her wand, she Vanished the bloody garment, and found herself staring at the gaping wound just below his ribs on the right side of his body.
'Don't swoon,' he snapped irritably, and Hermione shifted her gaze to his face, surprised that he was alert enough to be aware of her reactions.
'Of course not,' she answered briskly, and she gently propelled him into the shower stall, surprised but gratified to see a bench built into the tiled wall. 'Perfect,' she murmured, and releasing the spell, she seated him on the bench and reached for the taps.
'Perfect for blow jobs in the shower,' he informed her, and she turned to look over her shoulder, a laugh startled from her by this playful display. 'Aren't you going to take your clothes off first?' he added. 'No point in getting them wet, is there?'
She turned, hands on her hips, and gave him a severe frown. 'I don't think you're as incapacitated as you were pretending to be,' she said.
He responded with a smirk. 'The pain potion took the edge off,' he admitted. 'Come here and I'll undress you.'
But Hermione was already pulling off her clothes and throwing them out of the stall onto the floor. When she was completely naked, she turned back to the taps and took the first spray of cold water on her body, protecting him from it and shielding him until the water was perfectly warm. When she was satisfied with the temperature, she twisted the showerhead so the water would fall on him, and taking up his soap, she approached him.
He sat quiescent in the warm water spray, allowing the water to rinse the caked blood from his face and his torso. She knelt before him, washing his feet and lower legs as the streaming water worked on the parts of his body which had been injured. She watched him closely, worried that he might fall asleep, but the gentle movement of his fingers upon her shoulders reassured her. She rubbed the soap over his thighs, her hands spreading the aromatic lather over the long, lean muscles there. He sighed audibly, widening the vee of his legs, and Hermione rubbed the bubbles into the shock of wiry black hair covering his scrotum, surprised but pleased to see his cock stirring.
Stop it! she scolded herself. He's injured—he's not himself—you have no business molesting him when he's at a disadvantage!
Yet it seemed that her professor did not share her scruples, for he directed her soapy hands to his stiffening penis, and when she had begun to wash it, his eyes opened, the glittering black irises indistinguishable from the pupils.
'You'll want to make sure it's clean and rinsed properly,' he said, his fingers trailing down to pinch her nipples. 'You won't want soap in your mouth when you suck me off and swallow my come.'
Her quim throbbed in response to his words, the devilish fingers plucking at her nipples undoubtedly adding to her confusion, but she made an attempt to stay on topic. 'Sir—shouldn't we get you clean and back into bed, so I can heal your wound?'
He thrust up through the slick hands now rinsing the soap from his groin. 'We'll do that, Hermione—after I come in your mouth.' He stared down into her face, a sneer upon his lips. 'Don't you want me to fuck your mouth, pet?'
Hermione felt her resolve melting. He was sitting down, wasn't he? Surely he could come to no harm—and sweet Merlin, she wanted to taste him again. His thickening, lengthening member bobbed now in front of her face, begging her attention.
'That's right,' he murmured, and she looked up to see him watching her. 'When you look at my cock and lick your lips like that, little one …'
Hermione dipped her head and closed her lips around the knob of his prick, her tongue swirling.
'Fuck,' he swore, and his hands gripped her breasts convulsively, closing over the softness with a groan.
Hermione slid her mouth down his length, careful with the teeth, trying to remember the things she had done the first time, which had gone remarkably well. He was less controlled this time, his movements jerkier and more forceful, but his enjoyment was vocal and loud. She felt like a goddess, conferring favour and pleasure upon an adherent, and at the same time, like a worshipper at the shrine of her own idolatry. His cock seemed bigger, somehow, than it had done before, and she wondered if that was because he was thrusting more, harder, his fingers twining in her hair. She realised he was exerting more pressure on her head than the last time, and she knew a moment of panic as she felt him impact the back of her throat.
Concentrate! she reminded herself. Making a deliberate effort to relax her muscles, she focussed her attention on his hip movement and the noises emanating from him—pleasureful and quite loud. She found it difficult to remember everything she had read about how to properly suck a penis, intent as she was on preventing the gag reflex from triggering, but her professor seemed no less pleased than he had done before.
He began to speak, then, his voice nearly guttural in his extremity. 'You're amazing,' he said, his panting breaths all but robbing him of the ability to speak. 'Prepare yourself,' he gasped, and then the salty, hot liquid flooded her mouth. He thrust once, twice, thrice more, each more shallow than the last, until he was still.
Hermione knew she had not swallowed all of the ejaculate; it had run down his cock, soaking into the pubic hair, only to be washed away by the cascading shower. Even so, she had managed some, she had not gagged or retched, and he was caressing her now with terrific tenderness.
When he released her hair, she slowly raised her face from his groin, looking up into his eyes, but they were closed. On his lips was a smile.
'Sir?' she said worriedly, reaching for his face.
'I'm fine,' he said lazily. 'Just shattered, is all.' His eyes opened. 'Could you finish washing me up?'
Very carefully, Hermione complied with his request, taking extra care with his torso. The wound on his abdomen was four inches long and rather deep. It was clean, now, but still bleeding in a sluggish way. She stood and took his shampoo from the shelf. As she washed his hair, she ascertained that the blood on his face had come from superficial scratches. He all but purred beneath her hands as she massaged his scalp, and she looked down into his blissful countenance, wondering what sort of fight he had been through, that this was his condition afterwards.
When she was sure she had rinsed his hair completely, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower enclosure to procure a towel. 'Do you need the toilet?' she asked. 'If not, may I levitate you to the bed?'
When she had him dry and supine, she took up her wand, looking doubtfully at the wound. 'Let me call Madam Pomfrey,' she said nervously.
He was all but asleep, but he managed a snort. 'I'd like to see you explain what you were doing in my rooms,' he said.
'Don't laugh!' she protested. 'I've never tried to heal a wound this big. I may not get it right.'
He shook his head once. 'Nonsense. I've never seen you fail to perform a spell properly.'
Hermione felt her cheeks flush with pleasure. Even so, she said playfully, 'Flattery will get you nowhere, sir.'
He laughed softly but seemed too sleepy to reply. Gathering her confidence, Hermione raised her wand and began to sing the spell, tracing about the edges of the wound, then back and forth, as if encouraging the skin to knit again. When it looked as if the skin had grown back, she applied the dittany.
By the time she was satisfied with her work, he was deeply asleep. She covered him with the bedclothes, then crawled in with him, curling up at his side. When they woke up, she would ask him where he had been and how he had been injured—but for now, she allowed herself to join him in sleep.
