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Hermione flew up to the second floor with the shouts of Mrs. Black ringing in her ears, dizzy with adrenaline, and bolted into the room that was assigned as hers for the week, closing the door behind her. Her legs suddenly gave out and she collapsed on the wooden floor, trembling and breathing heavily, the scene she had just witnessed downstairs burnished brightly behind her eyelids. Her hand plunged immediately into the soaked underwear and a few desperate strokes later she came hard, biting down on her lip to prevent herself from moaning out loud.
“Fuck,” the part sigh, part moan escaped her. Way to start the holidays.
The shuffling noises behind the bedroom door signalled some of the other inhabitants were sleepily trudging down to try and silence the screeching portrait and figure out just what exactly set it off. Hermione struggled to her feet and made towards the bed, blood rush subsiding. There was a knock on the door and Molly’s voice filtered through:
“Hermione? Was that you I heard come in?”
Hermione cracked the door open, blinking at the bright wand light and feeling her cheeks redden:
“Yeah, sorry about that, Molly, I really tried not to set her off but you know how she is.”
“No worries, my dear, we really need to do something about that harridan, it’s getting old tiptoeing around her. You must be exhausted though, go get some shuteye, if you can with all the ruckus.”
“Thanks, Molly, yeah I am completely wiped, you know how it is with long distance Portkeys.”
“Sleep well, dear and see you later. I probably won’t go back to bed, it’s almost five and I might as well start on the bread.”
Hermione closed the door and willed her heart to stop hammering in her chest. That was way too close for comfort, that. She kicked off her shoes, wearily took off the clothes and dug out a pair of tartan flannel pjs (Minerva’s Christmas gift) from her infamous beaded bag, deciding that the shower can wait till morning. Even at the end of May, Grimmauld Place was really chilly in the early hours, so she cast a warming charm on the blanket for good measure and tucked herself in, feeling the exhaustion wash over her. Hermione was asleep in seconds, with a slight smile playing on her lips.
What a way to start the holidays indeed.
***
The alarm ripped her out of the blessed oblivion a few hours later, much too soon as far as she was concerned, but Hermione knew it was for the best to try and get over the worst of the jet lag as soon as possible. Even if that meant she was going to be surviving mostly on copious amounts of industrial strength coffee all day. She stretched luxuriously under the blanket and rubbed her eyes open, grimacing at the taste in her mouth. While a tiny sink in the corner of the bedroom meant she didn’t have to leave it to brush her teeth, she was simply too tired for it yesterday. Or rather too distracted for it. Hermione felt her cheeks flush again at the memory of the desperate need to climax that overwhelmed her after witnessing Snape’s.
Oh God.
Merlin.
Fuck.
She witnessed Snape come. In his sleep. She was also pretty sure her Disillusionment charm had failed her in the end when she bolted from the library. He must have seen it was her.
Oh God. Furious probably wouldn’t even begin to describe how Snape must now feel. Hermione shuddered at the thought of his incandescent rage at having been observed in such an intimate situation and by her of all people. She simply had to find a way to survive this week somehow without being turned into one of his most disgusting potions ingredients, as slim of a chance as that was.
She was in deep, deep trouble.
***
After splashing her face with cold water to get rid of the remnants of sleep still clinging stubbornly on, Hermione decided to brave the kitchen to get a coffee to kickstart her brain and hide in the bathroom on the ground floor which had a proper tub for a soak and a strategy session. Most of the inhabitants seemed to have been roped in helping to sort out the garden outside for the festivities, as she observed through her bedroom window while brushing teeth. Snape wasn’t to be trifled with at the best of times, and she needed to fortify herself mentally in order to be able to bear the brunt of his anger. Would he seek her out for a shouting match? Or would he simply materialise from a dark corner which were aplenty in the house when she least expected to turn her into something slimy? Hermione shuddered. Avoidance was the best course of action, but she couldn’t properly strategise without caffeine, so this had to be addressed first.
Quick dash to the thankfully empty kitchen with bathing supplies pressed under her arm, one giant cup of strong black coffee acquired, Hermione counted herself very lucky that she could nip in and out unobserved. Specifically by a certain tall and foreboding Potions Master who had an axe to grind with her now. She slowly made her way past the infernal Mrs. Black’s portrait, carefully balancing the coffee and all the bathing paraphernalia, her fuzzy socks making the sneaking about much easier to achieve than last night. The portrait was covered by a thick curtain and mumbling to itself complaining about the ungrateful bastards who were responsible, but at least the fabric prevented Hermione from being seen and shouted at. Being called a Mudblood whore did get old after so many years. She carefully inched down along the passage towards the library once again, as the bathroom she was aiming for was situated opposite it, her heart beating so loud she was sure she would be overheard by that infernal hag of a portrait.
The library door was closed shut, and she felt an electric charge of arousal course through her when she thought about what she had witnessed behind it scant few hours ago. Hermione shivered in the remembered pleasure and entered the bathroom opposite.
She set her towel, bath products and fresh underwear out, and carefully sipped on the coffee while waiting for the bath to fill. Hermione usually preferred to have a soak in the evenings but this would have to do, she didn’t feel ready yet to face anyone, especially him. As the caffeine started to kick slowly in, Hermione poured some of the bath gel she randomly grabbed at the last minute from her parents bathroom back in Sydney into the steaming water. It smelled a bit Christmassy, of pine and eucalyptus, slightly incongruous for the summer in the Northern hemisphere but it would do the job nicely. Hermione continued drinking coffee, then twisted up her hair clipping it in place with a large plastic hairclip, undressed and climbed into the bath, settling her half drunk cup on the narrow, tiled ledge beside it. She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening to the white noise of the running taps and feeling the sunlight play on her face. The old sash window looked out into the tiny, forgotten corner of the garden that was completely overgrown and secluded, especially at this time of the year when everything was so lusciously green.
A few minutes later Hermione leaned forwards and turned off the taps. The window had half steamed over, as it looked to be a rather brisk day outside despite the sunshine. She felt her muscles relaxing, as she settled back again, breathing in the piney, green scent emanating from the gently crackling foam bubbles surrounding her. Hermione took another sip of now lukewarm coffee and made a face as it was getting cold. Setting it back on the ledge, she closed her eyes again and considered the absolute pickle she had found herself in.
Snape.
Avoiding him for the whole week in the house full to the brim with people might be actually quite achievable when Hermione thought about it, as long as she veered off her now former sanctuary of the downstairs library. She knew that antisocial as Snape was, he would seek to escape people at least as often as her, if past occurrences of constantly finding him ensconced in one of the armchairs, nose buried deep in some dusty tome or other counted. Over the last few years they had reached an unspoken understanding of a fellow introvert in need of an escape, and Hermione had spent countless hours curled up on the sofa opposite him reading, the only disturbance to the quiet being pages turned by either of them, and the crackling of a fireplace.
She would never be able to even look at that sofa without getting aroused now, would she.
Merlin’s balls, Hermione really didn’t know how on Earth she was going to survive the whole week without her safe space to retreat when her social battery needed a recharge. Her assigned bedroom barely had enough space for the double bed pushed back against the wall, a dresser and a sink, and she didn’t fancy spending the whole week traipsing up and down several flights of stairs whenever she needed an escape, especially as all the interesting books were in the library she now had to avoid. Hermione also had enough of being holed up in tiny bedrooms over the last four years at uni down under. That said, the thought of being alone in a room, that room, with Snape utterly terrified her. What’s worse, Hermione only had her own infernal curiosity to blame.
That, and the realisation which slammed into her last night the minute she realised it was Snape of all people she was observing; he was so mouthwateringly attractive in his sensual abandon, Hermione was simply unable to resist, drawn like a moth to a flame. Snape, who used to be simply part of the furniture in the library downstairs throughout the last few of these gatherings, her former teacher slash double agent whom she never even considered in that light before (except for that sinful voice he wielded as a deadly weapon, thank all the deities Nagini somehow missed his vocal chords). Seeing him so… free, no longer so tightly wound up, so… sensual was eye opening. She would never be able to unsee it. She would never want to unsee it.
This week is going to be hell.
***
A slight noise from the outside startled Hermione from a doze she was about to succumb to. As she raised her eyes to the window, a gasp tore the breath out of her.
Snape was holding aside the branches of the bush that was covering the secluded little corner the bathroom window faced out to, looking straight at her. The steam had completely dissipated from the glass so he could see her in full. Hermione jerked up, immediately covering her breasts self consciously as the foamy bubbles were barely present in the cooling bath water.
Fuck.
She felt pinned by his angry gaze as the aforementioned moth, captured, unable to breathe, her heart pounding, nerve ends tingling. What on Earth was he doing there?
Seconds, minutes, hours, days passed. He held her gaze steadily, anger and some other emotion shadowing his face. Hermione gasped again, her body restarting breathing for her, panic coursing throughout her veins, all the instincts screaming at her to run. She couldn’t move however, except for the rise and fall of her chest, trying really hard not to hyperventilate.
Suddenly Snape released the branches he was holding back, and disappeared from view. Hermione sighed, shook her head and decided that the bath time was over, she was way too tense to resume her soak, thoughts racing hundred miles per hour. What the fuck was Snape up to? How did he – did he know she was there, or did he stumble upon that particular corner of the garden by accident? How long was he standing there? She shivered, and not only because of the cooling bath water.
As Hermione reached forward to unplug the stopper, a floorboard creaked just outside the door. She froze.
No way.
No.
The round door handle started turning. Hermione frantically looked around for her wand, of course it was upstairs, she got out of habit of the constant vigilance, she was also severely jetlagged from all the multiple timezones she had to jump through Portkeying from Sydney last night. Hermione simply didn’t consider for a second she’d need it in the bathroom which appeared to be a massive oversight. The old mechanism of the lock had been broken for ages, but people always preferred using bathrooms on upper floors, closest to their bedrooms so this was more of a glorified downstairs loo, nobody cared that the lock didn’t work - if the door was closed, it must be in use, otherwise it was left cracked open.
Hermione felt like a deer in headlights, watching the handle turn.
The door opened and Snape strode in, locking it behind him nonverbally with an elegant wave of his hand.
Hermione sat back in the cooling water, arms recrossed over her chest, eyes glued to every move he made. Snape leant casually against the wall between the loo and the window, his eyes never leaving her gaze. He crossed his arms, shirt sleeves still rolled up from whatever he was doing in the garden, hair slightly windswept, and continued to mutely stare at her.
“Fucking hell Snape, what the fuck are you doing here?”, Hermione exclaimed, not being able to bear the tension any longer.
He simply raised his infernal eyebrow, levelling a calculating look at her, and waited. She stared back in confusion and not a little apprehension, feeling the heat starting to pool low in her abdomen despite the danger.
“Is this… is this some sort of payback? For… last night?” Hermione felt her cheeks starting to flush, skin prickling from the heavily charged atmosphere.
He continued silently observing her, face neutral except for a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, which was extremely unnerving. Hermione shivered. How on Earth could she get out of this, whatever this was? Hermione shivered again and realised that the water had cooled so much she was going to develop hypothermia if she didn’t get out of it soon. The bathrobe and the towel she’d hung on the door, she might’ve hung them on a tree in Siberia for all the use they could be for her with him there.
Pickle indeed.
Hermione felt she was going to burst out laughing any second now, yet tried to hold it together, just about, as she didn’t want to succumb to the hysteria she felt glimmering at the edge of her consciousness.
Deep breaths, Hermione. Deep breaths.
His dark eyes almost imperceptibly flashed down, lingering on the rise and fall of her chest. Hermione felt goosebumps starting to cover her skin, nipples tightening to almost painful peaks.
Oh.
She gathered the last vestiges of her pride and resolve like an invisible cloak around her, reached forward to unplug the stopper, and slowly stood up tall in the draining bathtub, meeting his startled gaze in a challenge. It was a novel, powerful feeling to be able to stare him down at direct eye level as the bathtub evened out the difference between their respective heights.
Hermione willed her cheeks to stop flushing but it was a losing battle. She kept her arms relaxed and continued to hold Snape’s gaze, pinning him to the wall like he had previously. While she wasn’t and would never be a great beauty, Hermione knew she had lovely tits. Case in point, he couldn’t seem to stop his gaze wandering down. Ha.
Turnabout is fair play, and to hell with everything else.
“Pass the towel, please.”
***
Snape reached for the towel and handed it over to her, his eyes locking back with hers with an almost audible click. Hermione started drying herself with quick, economic movements, and if she lingered slightly here and there, especially when drying off her chest and between her legs, what of it. Keeping her facial expression relaxed and nonchalant was a struggle but she managed. Nothing to see here, this was completely normal, and in no way she was getting more and more aroused, nope.
Hermione stepped out of the drained bath and focused on folding the damp towel into a neat rectangle. Snape’s gaze was heavy on her skin, she felt the flush going down towards her breasts, nerve endings singing under his observation. Then as she raised her eyes defiantly, Hermione dropped the folded towel at his feet and sank down on her knees in front of him. Snape sucked in a surprised breath, his eyes widening slightly.
Hermione sat back on the heels, hands braced on her thighs, gaze firmly fixed on his face even though it was a bit of a struggle to not let it wander down where she really wanted to focus on, her mouth watering at the thought. Snape stood frozen in place, towering over her, the only sign of life being a slight movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Whether it was courage, sheer bravado or plain foolishness that caused her to challenge him yet again, she was not backing down now. Hermione daringly reached towards his wool clad thigh. Her wrist was seized abruptly, anger and some unnamed emotion flashing back in his dark eyes.
“What the fuck are you playing at, Granger?”
Hermione silently held his intense gaze for a few seconds.
“What do you think?”
Her free hand boldly stroked him once over the now quite prominent black wool covered bulge, eyes still fixed on his angular face. The smirk was history now, instead his mouth opened slightly in astonishment at her daring, eyes lit with desire. The grip on her wrist loosened, so Hermione seized the opportunity and quickly started unbuttoning his trousers. Her throat went dry as she pulled down his underwear (black, of course), freeing the erection that she’d only seen the delicious denim-clad outline of last night.
He was glorious. Hermione wasted no time and swallowed as much of his length as her throat allowed, lightly squeezing the base with her hand. Snape’s breath hitched. Her eyes locked back with his heated gaze while she retreated slowly and then swirled her tongue once around the sensitive head of his cock before engulfing him back.
“Fuck.”
The guttural groan ripped out from his throat set her nerve endings aflame once again, echoing the electric charge of last night. Her hairclip was roughly pulled out, allowing the curls tumble down the shoulders. His long fingers immediately seized a fistful of her hair in an almost painful hold. Hermione ignored it and continued sucking him off, revelling in the glorious feeling of his extremely male flesh in her mouth while her other hand was gently fondling his sack. She squirmed trying to rub her thighs together to alleviate some of the heavy, slick tension between her legs, she was so incredibly turned on.
“Enough.”
He roughly withdrew from her wet mouth, breathing heavily, eyes ablaze, then seized her arm and pulled Hermione back on her feet, swiftly turning her around and pushing her to lean over the empty bathtub. She grabbed hold of the tiled ledge next to her forgotten coffee cup for leverage, bracing herself for the onslaught she was expecting, hoping, despairing for. Snape gently kicked her feet wider apart, then without much preamble slammed into her.
Hermione groaned at the sensation. The primal sound that tore out of her seemed to have set a fire under him as he grabbed hold of her hips and set out a relentless, punishing pace. Hermione held on to the ledge for dear life, the front of her thighs were definitely going to bruise, braced over the bathtub as she was. Her orgasm was approaching quickly which was unexpected as she rarely came from penetration alone, yet somehow the angle she was bent at made her feel all of his exquisite hardness that much better. Hermione tried to sneak one of her hands down to rub at her clit to speed things up, but Snape was having none of that. He batted her hand away, reaching around her waist. His long, elegant fingers found and started circling the sensitive nub, bringing her to the precipice in seconds and mercilessly pushed her over it. Hermione bit down a ragged half moan half scream as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, her channel contracting hard around his length. Snape tensed and then shuddered, the last few jerky movements signalling his own release following in the immediate aftershocks of her peak. Their gasping breaths filled the small room, heady with the scent of sweat, sex and pines.
***
Hermione’s head swam, arms and legs trembling, and she was about to collapse into the tub when Snape finally withdrew and pulled her back up. His arms snaked around to hold her steadily against his chest as she was so shaky with the aftermath. After letting out a few more long, shuddering breaths to calm down the bloodrush Hermione felt slightly more sure on her feet, and slowly turned around to face him. Snape’s features were arranged back to his usual inscrutable aloofness as he started pulling up his underwear and buttoning his fly, yet the dark eyes were still burning with the remnants of the fiery blaze from earlier, a fine sheen of sweat just visible on his forehead.
Hermione smiled slightly, reached for her bathrobe and slowly wrapped herself in it, his eyes tracing the disappearance of the expanse of flushed skin underneath. Snape finished tucking himself back into the trousers, his dark linen shirt now rumpled and streaked with sweat. He looked utterly delicious. Hermione took another deep breath and slowly exhaled, crossing arms under her bust, chin lifted slightly, not being able to hold back a small satisfied smirk.
“So.”
“So.”
The tension in the air started thrumming again as their eyes met. Hermione felt her face break out into a brilliant smile, she felt on top of the world.
“May I kiss you now, Snape?”
“It’s Severus.”
“Severus, then. May I?”
Hermione didn’t wait for the answer and grabbed his shirt to pull him down closer. Severus almost growled at her boldness, his fingers curling around a fistful of her hair again. He crushed his lips with hers in an exhilarating kiss, seemingly intent on devouring her whole being. Hermione responded in kind, pressing her body to meld with his, millions of stars dancing behind her eyelids. Merlin, the man could kiss. Who knew?
Things were definitely looking up.
***