Two days later, Severus found himself apparating to Madam Peony's. He told himself the visit was merely to quench his lust and had nothing to do with finding out more about the woman spreading her legs for him. After all, why should he care who she really was when he knew she wouldn't be happy to find out who he really was?

He grimaced and was reminded of why he'd only procured women in brothels outside of London. The idea of accidentally propositioning a woman he knew- or worse an old student- was abhorrent to him. He didn't need pity and he didn't need false concern.

After Voldermort's defeat, he had happily resigned from his reinstated post at Hogwarts and withdrew from the world. He'd been hated and reviled and rightly so. He'd played his part so well he had become it. The foundation had been there all along, after all. In his adolescence, he'd been angry and resentful of the world in general. People like James Potter only reinforced those feelings. He would never be good looking like Sirius Black, or popular like James, or even respected like Remus. The only thing he had that was of any value was his mind, which hadn't done him a damn bit of good when he'd driven Lily into James' arms. Losing her to his most hated enemy had turned teenage angst and sullenness into brooding rage and callousness.

He'd been a perfect student for Voldermort to groom into a loyal, cruel servant. Voldermort made him feel powerful. Told him that he deserved all the things life had denied him. Built within him the sense of entitlement until it was an outrage that he'd been shunned in school, kicked aside by his parents, overlooked by the only woman he'd ever cared for. For the first time in his life, women threw themselves at him. He slaked his voracious appetite on them, but still never got over losing Lily.

It wasn't until Voldermort marked her for death that he realized the thought of her losing her life made all his aspirations, all the things he felt entitled to, seem cheap and petty. He might not have agreed with her choice of husband, but Lily was innocent. He might have tried to hate her, but she represented everything good and wholesome to him. For the first time, he looked around himself and felt shame. The revels, the 'cleansings'- they suddenly seemed vile and dirty. Things that should never touch Lily.

It had been the moment he realize that somewhere down his path of darkness, he'd gone too far. Let things get out of hand. But what was he supposed to do? There was no leaving the Death Eaters. Defecting meant instant death. No one stood up to Voldermort and lived. So how was he supposed to save Lily?

The answer had been simple, really. Dumbledore. Of course. The one man Voldermort feared. If anyone could save Lily, it was him. And at first, what the headmaster had demanded in exchange seemed so little. Only his life. His obedience. His unquestioning compliance to any plan Dumbledore set him to. Severus had already sworn his fealty to a madman once before...what was one more oath?

The rest was a matter for the history books. Despite Dumbledore's best laid plans, Lily had been murdered. Voldermort had vanished- but both Snape and Dumbledore knew it wasn't forever. So he'd been forced into accepting a position at the school as a teacher. Laughable, really. Severus Snape as a teacher. Molding young minds. As if he had the right. But he went along with Dumbledore's every whim, even up to the old man's death. And then beyond, he followed Dumbledore's instructions from the grave, carrying out those actions that would bring about the end result that had been in motion for more than two decades.

But by the time it was all said and done, Severus had nothing left. He was a shell of the man he had been. Snide and snark were his bed mates, cold and callous his companions. He'd sneered at the offer to return to Hogwarts. As if he would spent one more moment there. Hogwarts had been the only true home he'd ever known, but it had been tainted forever for him. The few of his colleagues that had dared approach him later were hexed for their trouble. Only Minerva, who'd neatly sidestepped his hex and glared at him until he lowered his wand, had been allowed to speak to him.

She'd handed him a list of potions and asked him to supply them to the school, provided, of course, that he be properly reimbursed for his trouble. He'd crushed the parchment in his fist and dropped it at her feet without a word, but the crafty old witch had magically affixed it to the back of his robes as he walked away. When he'd found it later, he'd been half tempted to send it back to her as a howler. But the more he thought about it, the more he realize that he would eventually need a means of supporting himself.

He did have the house he grew up in- not that he particularly wanted to live there- as well as a fairly sizable account at Gringotts, but it wasn't enough to last him the rest of his life. He wasn't even forty. Most wizards worked well into their 120s. He was used to living on very little, but even he couldn't go another hundred years without a source of income. And so he'd carefully brewed every potion on Minerva's blasted list, and sent them to Hogwarts. Less than an hour later, an owl from Gringotts had notified him that 300 galleons had been deposited into his vault.

The revolving account at Hogwarts kept him busy, but not so much so that he didn't have time to seek out other customers. His business was built on the backs of society's dregs. He sold Sober Up by the barrel to tavern owners who doubled their investment by gouging drunkards who just couldn't be seen stumbling home one more night. He brewed anti-cheating droughts that the gambling dens forced their customers to drink before they were allowed to play. And he sold immunity and contraceptive potions to the brothels.

He had already been a regular of Anne's when he'd gone into the potion making business. Even still, her madam had been more than happy to change from accepting galleons to accepting discount potions she could resell for full price. Even Anne had been pleased with the situation. She wasn't the brightest witch, but she had always been smart enough to keep herself clean, and the potions were a big part of that.

The new woman, Hyacinth- how he was beginning to hate that cheap, fake name- obviously knew the benefit of potions. He'd already sent her ten through the transference box. It seemed she took every potion that might be needed to maintain her health and safety. Severus might have been tempted to resent her for depleting his stores if he didn't respect her so much for it. How could he complain about giving up his carefully brewed potions when the return was a warm, welcoming cunt as clean and fresh as the day it had been made? Such a small price to pay for so a precious commodity. He fought down his erection at the thought of being inside her. He didn't need to walk into the brothel already sporting his hard on. He only had to wait a few more minutes.

Inside, Madam Peony had been getting ready to turn in for the night. It had been slow, and most of the girls were already asleep. When the bell at the front door sounded, she fought the urge to send the man packing and instead put on her hostess smile.

"Oh, it's only you, Master Potione," she said when she saw him. She was relieved. As a rule, she never went to sleep while there were still customers in the house. But he was a special exception. She could practically hear her bed calling her name.

Severus barely flicked her a glance. "Is she alone?"

"At this time of night? O'course. Go on up." But he was already halfway up to the first landing as she said the words. Greedy Gus she thought, without any real malice. She locked the doors and sent a silent charm up to Hyacinth's room to let her know a customer was on his way up.

Hermione barely had time to put her anonymity charm back on before there was a knock at the door. "Come in," she called. The door opened and her potion patron walked in looking nearly wild with impatience. "Welcome, Master Potione." She smiled at him. It wasn't a false smile aided by her disguise. It was hard not to smile at the man who was helping her cause so greatly.

"Are you ready for me?" he asked in growl.

"Of course." She rose, letting him take in the sight of the black negligee she wore. His eyes roved over her as if he was starving and she were a feast. Without a word, he drew her to the bed and bent her over it. In her heels, their heights lined up perfectly. He unzipped his trousers, lifted her skirt and thrust into her. He was fast and brutal, using her body roughly until he came. When he was done, he let her collapse on the bed while he caught his breath. Now that his initial fervor had cleared, he took the time to remove his clothes and lay them neatly by the bed. He stayed standing there until she noticed he hadn't moved and picked up on her que.

She slid onto her knees on the floor and took his semi-hard cock between her lips. Experimentally, she glanced up at him through her lashes. It was a move that often made men moan. He looked back at her as if in challenge, so she boldly met his gaze all the way. At her audacity, he groaned and grew hard again.

Rather than let her suck him to completion, he drew her to her feet, plucked the skimpy night gown from her body, and caged her against the bed. His lips trailed along her neck. It wasn't a caress or a kiss, but almost as if he was tasting her. Relishing in the salt on her skin. Her knees fell open in invitation and he thrust inside her once more. With his initial orgasm out of the way, he was free to ride her to his content. At first, he gave no thought to the orgasm she'd had the last time he'd taken her from this position, only focusing on his own pleasure. After a while, though, he noticed her cheeks start to flush and her breath catch. It became a game to see what made her body tighten in reaction. What caused her breathing to hitch. He drew out the sex, letting her grow impatient with his lingering. When she began to strain up to him and meet his thrusts in frustration, he fought down a surprising feeling of triumph. He gripped her hips, tilted them up, and slammed into her.

This time, it wasn't just a hitched breath. She cried out, unable to stop herself. When he pulled back again she started to try and brace herself against the feel of him, to stifle her cry, and then realized he was teasing her. Instead of letting him get the better of her, she locked her heels behind him and urged him on with her nails against his back. He went wild, thrusting into her with no rhythm or form, just taking her as hard and fast as possible. Hermione didn't even need to tilt her hips up to him. The intensity of his onslaught swept her along with him to a shuddering, violent climax.

He collapsed atop her, utterly spent. Was this what sex with her would always be like? If so, he was going to have to do some serious revision to his thoughts on female orgasm. Every other time he'd been with a whore, their sexual pleasure wasn't even a thought in his mind. But with her, it was becoming a means of enhancing his own enjoyment. Was she so responsive with all her customers?

"If you're this easy to pleasure, I'll bet you don't even have to fake it with other men." He caught his breath and rolled off her. She stretched languidly.

"I'm not just flattering you when I say that this isn't the norm with my other customers."

"But with me you don't seem to have any trouble getting off."

"Perhaps you just have the right equipment for the job," she answered coyly. He frowned at her.

"Idle flattery doesn't suit you. Nor does it appeal to me."

Instantly, she sensed her mistake. "Only half idle. I'm honestly not sure what about this makes me come. Whatever the case, I'm not complaining by any means."

"Just don't expect gratification every time. I may enjoy it now, but I'm not paying to work at your pleasure instead of mine."

"Of course," she said easily. It wasn't as if she was holding her breath for an orgasm from him. For all she knew, these last two might have been flukes.

"Good." They were silent for a tense moment. Then he cleared his throat and tried not to sound awkward as he asked, "how much longer do you expect to work for Madam Peony?"

At first Hermione said nothing. When he jostled her a little, she spoke up. "Oh you actually want an answer this time? Last time you asked you cut me off."

"Don't be cheeky. I disdain impertinence."

He'd said he didn't like idle chatter, either, but she didn't point that out. Actually, it did seem like a question he had a right to know the answer to. "Originally, I thought six more months at least. But with what I'll save from our arrangement...I'm hoping to cut that in half."

"Three months," he mused. Not nearly enough time. But it would have to do. It would be a pain in the ass to find another girl when she left, but he wasn't going to give her up now just to settle with someone long term but only half as talented. "I'll just have to make the most of our time, then."

"What happened to 'no idle chatter'?" she joked impetuously. He felt an answering grin curl his lips and smothered the reaction. Instead he rose up to kneel beside her head.

"You're right, there's been enough chatter." He pushed the head of his cock against her lips and she opened obligingly. She only had time for one long suck before he tangled his hand in her hair and held her head still while he began fucking her throat. Hermione kept her teeth carefully back and breathed slowly through her nose. Her gag reflex had long since vanished, so she had only to relax and let him have at her. He took a long time, enjoying the way her throat worked over his cock, letting her tongue stroke him until he came down her throat with a hoarse cry.

After, he rose and dressed. While he carefully ordered his appearance, she thought about his paradoxical behavior. He claimed he wanted no unnecessary speaking between them, be seemed to enjoy banter with her. And though he'd made it very clear, both before their first encounter and now again after their second one, that he had no interest in her sexual pleasure, she'd already orgasmed as many times with him as she had in her two and a half years at the brothel. He seemed to enjoy it. But perhaps it was a surprising phase that would eventually bore him. Truly, she was best not to come to expect orgasms from him. That way she wouldn't be disappointed when they stopped.

He paused at the door and turned back to her thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you'll give me your real name so I can stop referring to you by that insufferable alias?"

Her reaction was instant. Her face shuttered and she replied with tight belligerence bordering on hostility. "No more than you will divulge yours, Master Potione." She lifted her chin in challenge. Surprised at the intensity of her reaction, he merely inclined his head in accord.

"Touché," he murmured. Hermione realized belatedly how harsh she had been with him at an innocent question.

"I value my privacy, Master. Perhaps more so now than ever before, I'm sure you'll understand. But maybe we can come to a compromise?"

"I'm listening."

"An initial, instead of a name? You can refer to me as H." At his slanted look, she smiled. "My real first initial, I assure you."

"Thank you," he said, relieved at not having to use the asinine floral name for her. "You'll be expecting the same in return, I assume?"

"Only if you like," she assuaged him but then flashed a saucy grin. "I've always enjoyed a little tit for tat, though."

"How apropos." His lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. "You can call me S, then."

"Well, then, S." She rose from the bed, naked save for her high heels, and sauntered to him. She pressed her breasts against his chest as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Till next time."