For the Potions Master's Amusement

Chapter 34: Twas the Night Before Christmas

Hermione walked down the snowy High Street, her thoughts far away. Professors McGonagall and Sprout were in the Three Broomsticks, having warm drinks after completing their last-minute holiday shopping. Hermione had begged off, claiming to have one more thing to pick up, and now she had to figure out what that 'one more thing' was going to be.

How in the world did one choose a Christmas gift for one's Dominant? What would he want?

Still puzzling over her dilemma, she stepped into Gladrags, her eyes sweeping over the offerings for men. She knew he liked jumpers—she had seen him wear a number of different ones—but what would he think of receiving a gift of clothing from her? Would it be presumptuous?

Wandering into a row of jumpers in every colour, she reached for one in a soft, flat black. The jumper was woven from the softest wool; she could not resist the urge to bury her face in it. She could easily imagine the fabric saturated by her professor's signature scent. With a happy sigh, she reached for the price tag.

Her jaw dropped. Fifty Galleons? Fifty? Hermione put it back on the shelf. She didn't have fifty Galleons to spend. Disconsolately, she searched through the other jumpers. She found one in Slytherin green for ten Galleons, which would clean out her purse of any remaining funds, but the wool seemed rough and scratchy—it was clearly inferior to the black one. Dissatisfied, she returned the green jumper to its place.

Back out on the High Street, she considered her options. She could buy a book for him, but how could she possibly choose something he would like? Surely any books on Potions he would already have acquired for himself, and she had not yet had the leisure to examine his personal book collection to determine his tastes. She could give him a book she loved, but she quailed from the notion. What if he despised her taste? She stood before the window of the small book store, staring in at the display of seasonal books. It was saddening to realise that she loved Severus Snape with all of her being and yet did not know him well enough to so much as choose a trifling book for him to enjoy in his leisure time. It was a disconcerting realisation.

She wanted to give herself to him, body and soul; she trusted him with every fibre of her being. But what did she really know about him?

She turned from the book store display, noting that the thirty minute time limit imposed by Professor McGonagall was nearly over. Rushing back toward the pub, she passed Scrivenshaft's. On impulse, she darted inside. Perhaps she could procure a nice quill for him. Everyone needed a new quill, didn't they?

A display of brightly feathered quills caught her eye, and she was drawn to it. Amongst the scarlets, turquoises, and chartreuses, she found a glistening, blue-black raven feather quill. The feather was perfect, the barbs sleek and pristine—and precisely the colour of her professor's hair, when clean. And directly beside the feather was a small box of writing parchment, edged in darkest forest green. She could easily see her professor sitting down to his table and using this beautiful quill to write a letter to a friend or family member upon the elegant writing paper.

'Can I wrap those up for you, miss?' a round little wizard with rosy cheeks inquired.

Hermione turned to him with a smile so radiant the small man could only smile back. 'Yes!' she said happily. 'I'll have the raven quill and a box of the writing parchment, please.'

She paid the seven Galleons, eight Sickles, and fourteen Knuts and hurried away to join up with her companions.


That night, Hermione watched for Professor Snape at dinner, but he did not appear in the Great Hall. Well, if he had shopping to do in Diagon Alley, he might have decided to dine in London—perhaps even to sleep there. She determined that she was not going to worry about him. He had ordered her to 'reconsider' her offer of submission. Not necessarily to reach a different conclusion, though she was free to do so if her cogitations led her there—but to consider again, using all of the information available to her, whether she wished to offer her submission to Severus Snape. She had no expectation of reaching a new conclusion, but she had learned from The Sensuous Symmetry of Submission that a submissive ought to take every command of her Dominant—her Master!—very seriously, indeed. It would be blatantly disrespectful to disregard his instructions. Therefore, Hermione would sit down with quill and parchment and use her three thousand word essay as a tool of reconsideration.

After finishing dinner, she retired to her room in Gryffindor Tower. First, she cleared her desk of books and parchment and wrapped Professor Snape's Christmas gift. That done, she changed into her warmest pyjamas and took up her quill.

It took many hours to complete, but she knew in her heart that it was time well spent. She made a list of the pros and cons of offering her submission to her professor, sorting out her own thoughts in the process. So much of what she felt was bone-deep emotion—it was good discipline to separate reason from feeling. The column of the 'cons' seemed mostly to contain things war-related, such as the possibility of them being parted by their individual responsibilities. She was pleased to see that her list of 'pros' included such facts as her trust in, her respect for and her desire to serve him.

A huge part of her reason was her love for him. But she knew she could not make it part of her case for becoming his submissive. No mention of love had ever passed his lips, and she was resigned to the reality that it probably never would. She had already learned, however, to rely more on her professor's actions than his words when it came to expressing emotion.

Late into the night her candle burned as she fastidiously copied out her completed three thousand word essay for Professor Snape. When she finished the last sentence, she put her quill aside and stretched to relieve her cramped muscles. As she reached to close her green journal, his spiky handwriting appeared on the page opposite her last words:

As ever, Hermione, you have written a well thought out defence of your position. Your reasoning is sound. Outstanding work.

In more personal news, I am looking very much forward to our appointment tomorrow evening. Now, sleep—and I wish you sweet, submissive dreams. — SS



Hermione knew nothing, really, of how a submissive was to go about the business of offering her submission to a Dominant. Everything she knew about being a submissive had come from her lessons with Professor Snape and from her reading of Master Maximus' and t's book. Thankfully, t had written a full account of her offer of submission; Hermione would go through the same preparations as t had done, and she would go to her professor and initiate the ritual.

She spent a good deal of her day resting and making physical preparations. Before dinner, she removed from her wardrobe the garment she meant to wear down to the dungeons later that night. It was a cloak she had found amongst her mother's things from university—crushed red velvet with black fur trim. By modern Muggle standards, it was outrageously outré, but by wizarding standards, it was just rather old fashioned. She had brought it to school thinking she might use it for her wrap at a fancy dress party, but now she thought it would be perfect for this particular Christmas Eve.

Professor Snape was present at dinner, the first time she had seen him since the previous morning. Hermione's breath caught when she spied him at the staff table, dark and disturbing, his expressionless gaze resting upon her for long periods of time. She was far too excited to eat much, but she knew she was being watched, so she made a concerted effort to swallow some shepherd's pie. When she could bear it no longer, she took a last swallow of pumpkin juice and left the Great Hall to dress for the most solemn occasion of her life.

When she entered his study, just past eight o'clock, he was waiting for her. He sat upon the cobalt blue sofa, magnificent in black trousers and his tight white, high-necked jumper, his freshly washed hair combed back from his face.

'Good evening, Hermione,' he said. 'Come in.'

Leaving her shoes just inside the door, Hermione moved across the room to him, feeling like the proverbial moth drawn to the cataclysmic flame. His eyes never moved from her, glittering in his thin, sallow face. Her legs felt unsteady, her knees trembling as if they might, at any moment, fold beneath her. Still, she held on, stopping before him and standing proudly, enshrouded in fur-trimmed crushed red velvet. Holding his gaze, she unfastened the cloak and let it fall from her body, caressing her skin all the way to the floor.

She had taken pains to saturate her hair with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, so that it fell down her back to her shoulder blades. She wore no cosmetics, save for the glossy colour upon her lips, a near match for the cranberry red of the puddled velvet at her feet. Otherwise, she was completely naked, the sleek brown hair upon her head the only hair upon her body. She watched as his super-heated black eyes raked down her body, lingering speculatively upon her hairless cunt before rising again to her face. Still, he did not speak, allowing Hermione to lead their interaction—waiting to see what she would do.

Respectfully, Hermione inclined her head to him, then raised her eyes again. 'May I speak my mind, sir?' she asked, echoing the words t had used with her Master.

Professor Snape's oversized nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, but his voice betrayed no reaction as he said, 'You may, indeed.'

In one fluid motion, Hermione knelt at his feet, the nervousness she had felt earlier leaching away as she took him in. His stark, austere features were the ones of which she dreamed; the raven's wing black of his hair begged her touch; the surprising breadth of his shoulders, tapering to a too-small waist quickened her blood. This man was the one she wanted in life—the one she wanted to please—the one whose hands she wanted on her body, whether in pain or pleasure. She had nothing to fear in what was to come. It was the natural, inevitable conclusion of the journey she had begun months before, in the kitchen at number 12, Grimmauld Place.

She looked up into his beloved face, knowing her eyes were shining with tears and yet uncaring that they might fall. All that mattered was that he hear the words she was going to speak—the only wish of her heart was that he would accept her. In a voice which was resonate with her conviction, she began to speak.

'Sir, I have experienced your domination. I have been purified by your discipline, nurtured by your supervision, and taken completely beyond myself by your touch. Mindful of all we have discussed on the subject, it is with a full heart that I offer to you my submission.' Hermione felt a wave of emotion rising in her, making it difficult for her speak. Her professor's attention remained riveted upon her face as if he were absorbing her words. Swallowing with difficulty, Hermione continued her speech. 'Severus Snape, I request that you permit me to call you my Master and allow me to yield my will to yours, so long as we both shall wish it.'

They remained as they were for several beats, but Hermione felt no anxiety. The warmth of her professor's gaze as his eyes rested upon hers caused her heart to turn over in her chest. There was no discomfort, no concern that he might turn her away or somehow deflect her offer. She had the distinct impression that her professor had no desire to rush through this moment, but that he wished to savour it. Hermione was completely content to savour it with him.

When at last he spoke, the silken intimacy of his tone awoke the ache low in her belly, spreading a wakening warmth to her quim.

'I have experienced your submission,' he said. 'You demonstrate a true desire to learn, and as I have told you before, I have never seen a woman more naturally suited to submission than you are. Previously, I agreed to undertake your instruction and to see after your welfare.' He sat forward slightly now, resting his elbows on his legs. 'Now, Hermione Granger, I accept your offer of submission. Henceforward, I will be your Master, disciplining and supervising every aspect of your life, at every point seeking to lead you into ever deepening sexual submission, so long as we both shall wish it.'

Hermione felt the moment when the tears flowed over, tracking openly down her cheeks. The very air of the room seemed changed as she breathed it in, for the world had finally come fully right, and Severus Snape had avowed himself her Master.

Without looking away from her, he produced a strip of soft black leather which he draped over his palm and extended for her inspection. One end dangled, a pointed tip with small holes evenly spaced over a two inch length; the other dangling end held a plain silver buckle. Then he turned the strip of leather over on his palm, and she saw the silver disk in its middle, adorned with the simple engraving, SS.

'Will you wear my collar?' he asked, his voice gruff with what she easily recognised as emotion.

'Oh!' she gasped with a tiny sob. 'Oh, yes—please!'

He slipped from the sofa and knelt with her, chest to chest, and there was an awkward moment as he placed the collar about her throat, and she lifted her hair to permit him to fasten it. When it was secured, he bent his head to press his lips to the leather, his breath whispering over her skin before he raised his head to look into her face.

'You do me great honour,' he said to her. 'I shall do everything in my power to deserve your trust.'

Hermione's fingers traced the glory of the collar—her Master's collar—about her neck, and she smiled at him through her emotional tears. 'The honour is all mine, Master,' she said.

And as she spoke his title for the first time, something potent and wild flashed through his eyes. He jerked her against him, his lips crushing hers, tongue thrusting, teeth scraping, almost as if he would consume her. Hermione responded to him joyfully, twining her arms about his neck. Holding her to him firmly with one arm, he lifted his head and wielded his wand with the other, then pushed her gently back, and Hermione found herself reclining on the crushed red velvet cloak.

He remained on his knees, staring at her collared, naked form. 'You really belong to me now,' he informed her, a harsh note to his voice. 'Do you know what that means?'

Knowing it was a rhetorical question, Hermione shook her head once, waiting to hear what he would say.

'It means that no other man will touch you, my pet—not ever.'

He stood and began to undress, all the while watching her. Hermione could scarcely form a coherent thought. From the moment he had fastened the collar around her neck, she had felt as if she were in an altered state, completely in his thrall. He tossed the jumper aside and pulled off his boots, his lean back and shoulder muscles flexing with the effort. Each new revelation of skin increased Hermione's excitement; she wanted nothing but for him to be naked and deep inside her body.

He unfastened his belt and began to open his flies. 'Pinch your nipples,' he said, and she complied as if she were in a dream, completely open, no shred of self-consciousness to keep her from moaning at her own touch. 'Good girl,' he praised her, grasping his cock and pumping it slowly, bringing himself fully erect. 'Now, raise your knees and spread your thighs—show me your beautiful, naked cunt.'

Her bodied obeyed him with almost no effort on her part. She splayed her legs for him, shameless.

'Offer your breasts,' he commanded her, and Hermione cupped and raised them toward him, wringing a groan from his throat. Wordlessly, he shucked the remainder of his clothing and lowered himself atop her, his cock rigid against her stomach as he suckled her breasts. She slid her hands into his hair, but he released her nipple and pushed her arms wide, then up, staring down into her face with an almost feral intensity. He grasped both of her wrists in one hand, the other reaching between them to position his cock at her entrance. 'Whose collar do you wear?'

Hermione rolled her hips helplessly, wanting his cock. 'Yours,' she gasped.

'And who am I?' he demanded, his black eyes burning into hers.

'My Master!' she cried, grinding against him.

He entered her cunt and her mind simultaneously, two clean thrusts, cleaving her, body and soul. He released her wrists, using both arms to hold himself up from her, maintaining eye contact as he snapped his hips, fucking her. She was on fire for him, the burning seeming to be on a cellular level, translating her corporeal body to flame. And he blazed, as well, white heat in her mind, possessing her on every level, burning away everything that had come before, until only they remained.

You're mine, he told her, his implacable voice sounding in her mind, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a terrific sneer as he pounded in and out of her.

And as she had done once before, Hermione yielded to him completely, laying down volition, reaching for him with her entire being.

Yours, just as you are mine, she agreed, her voice sounding in their minds. Ah, sweet Merlin, she was within him, and he was within her, and they were one being, raw, exquisite, and scorching, consuming one another in the conflagration of their joining.

She felt his surprise and a fleeting resistance. Clearly, he was not comfortable with having her know him as wholly as he knew her. Stretching to encompass them both, Hermione simply projected her love for him, giving it no name, but wrapping them in it. She offered no challenge, asked no questions, sought no authority over him—but she was a fully functioning partner in the magic they made together, and he would have to learn to accept that. She saw his eyes widen, slowing for a moment the driving motion of his cock into her quim—and when his resistance melted into acceptance, her climax was upon her, her own personal inferno. She clutched at him with her hands, feeling the concatenation as it blazed through her body, and she felt it when he slipped the leash of reality, his control shattered, and together, they tumbled through the vastness of their fusion.

After a time, Hermione realised she couldn't breathe, and she gently nudged the deadweight atop of her. Her professor rolled onto his back, dragging her with him, a nonverbal spell bringing the emerald green blanket to cover them against the cold. Hermione snuggled happily against her Master, contentment beyond comprehension singing where before, passion had burned.

Turning his face to hers, Severus Snape inquired, between panting breaths, 'Good God, Hermione—what the fuck was that?'