Okay, I know, I know, I have too many stories that I SHOULD have updated, but I wrote a new one instead. SORRY! I couldn't help myself and this one has been begging to be put into words for far too long… so I do hope you enjoy it and I really will update my other ones very soon! I just needed something like this to get me out of my writing slump. And this will be a ONESHOT! I have no intentions to continue with it! I hope you enjoy it!


Hermione tiptoed down the steps of 12 Grimmauld at a wary pace. The boards were old and any wrong step might alert the other inhabitants to her nightly wandering. Or worse, they could wake Mrs. Black.

It had been a long summer day, full of cleaning and not much else. Hermione knew, even if no one else had noticed, that Mrs. Weasley was only trying to keep them occupied. The War was approaching; they could feel it. It hung at the edges of their awareness, no matter the happiness of the day, and everything seemed to point toward its inevitability. This year would be their seventh at Hogwarts, but the way things were looking, they might not make it there at all. Voldemort had plans for the school this year, according to Snape, and it would not do to walk into his trap.

Snape had been about the house quite often over the last few weeks. He'd even taken up a room of his own at the top of the stairs. That was odd enough, as he had avoided the house at all costs in the past. Of course, it was different now with Sirius gone. The two had hated one another. But the Potions Master also hated Harry—any blind man could tell you that—and yet here he stayed. Hermione supposed it was a matter of urgency; his constant, secretive Potions work in a room just off the basement kitchen. He'd established a sort of makeshift lab and had been experimenting day and night, only leaving the cramped space for meals (if then) and only allowing the Headmaster to enter.

Perhaps it was this which drew Hermione down into the depths of Grimmauld so late at night. She had been unable to sleep. A pair of obsidian eyes haunted her restless slumber as she tossed about on the narrow bed. It had been earlier this very day; at supper. Severus Snape, the formidable Potions Master, the ex-Death Eater spy, the Greasy Git, the Bat of the Dungeons… (the list went on and on, and every bit of it seemed another reason to make the following impossible)… had actually smiled at her. True, it had been a wary sort of smirk, a weak twitch at the corner of his mouth that no other would have noticed... but she had seen the amusement in his eyes; dark, focused obsidian eyes that stared into the depths of her soul with such calculated interest that her heart had dropped into the pit of her stomach and her mouth had run dry. How had she never noticed before what an intriguing person the Potion Master was? And yet… hadn't she? His erudite vocabulary, his extensive book collection, his vast knowledge and obviously intellectual inclinations… oh yes, she had admired him. But never in such a way as this.

It had been a simple joke; something or other about Harry's penchant for getting himself into trouble. She couldn't even remember what she'd said. But somehow, in that moment, she'd connected with the Professor in a way she never could have imagined he'd allow. It teased that long-repressed desire to have his approval and kept her up all night, uncomfortable beneath her sheets. She had to see him.

And so she made her way through the house, bare feet caressing the ancient wood of the staircase as she clung to the banister, desperate not to make a sound. If anyone would hear, it would be him, and that just would not do.

The first impulse to flee—to give up this foolish quest—arose within her at the sight of a light beyond his half-closed door. It was so unlike the practiced spy to keep a door open. But perhaps the sweltering heat of Potion-brewing in summer—so unlike the constant chill of the Hogwarts dungeons—was enough to break the rule of habit. Her heart began to flutter with nerves that made no real sense to her at all. Sure, the man had a history of provoking fear in young Gryffindors, but this was an entirely unprecedented anxiety.

And yet, she found herself moving closer and closer to that half-open door, still at a loss for anything to say. The closer she came, the more definite it was that any moment he would know that she was there. By the time she reached the entrance, there was no turning back.

Through the gap between the door and its frame, she watched the Potions Master as he scribbled across a lengthy sheet of parchment. He knew that she was there; of that she had no doubt. For a long moment, she could do nothing but watch as he finished up his note-taking and slowly unbent his considerable height to meet her gaze. "Miss Granger," he greeted in a not-unfriendly tone that sent her heart pounding desperately in her chest. His trademark robes and long frock coat were gone, hung in a corner strategically out of the way, leaving a plain white shirt with its sleeves rolled up, revealing his Dark Mark. Hermione tried not to stare. She had never seen the Mark in person before, and was surprised that the ex-Death Eater showed no shame in letting it be seen. "I suppose I should not be surprised to see you here."

Hermione's eyes jumped to his at that. Odd. Why shouldn't he be surprised? Had he expected her to come? "I couldn't sleep," she confessed, not knowing what else to say. "I saw your light."

"Hmmm," her Professor murmured, bending to scribble something on his parchment. "So we're taking a realistic approach."

Hermione's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Nothing," he told her, looking up from his notes once again. "So tell me, Miss Granger, what brings you here, tonight?"

Hermione shrugged. His open demeanor made her feel more at ease and she seemed to relax instinctively. "Curiosity, I suppose," she admitted with a shy smile. He merely nodded and scribbled more on the parchment before him.

"True to your character," he muttered, almost to himself. She had to grin.

"What are you working on?" she dared to ask. He was being so remarkably and uncharacteristically open with her tonight.

"Would you care to see?" He gestured for her to enter and Hermione took full advantage, eagerly skirting her way around his makeshift workbench to stand beside the Potions Master. Familiar, spidery writing covered page after page of notes, scattered across the broken wooden surface. She immediately identified the ingredients page for an experimental potion that Professor Snape seemed still to be creating. Several of the ingredients and amounts had been crossed out, changed, or relocated with ample notes for every step of the process. It was a jumbled mess, not at all like her own preferred organized manner, but it was beautiful all the same. This was a genius at work and he was allowing her to witness his discovery. It was beyond exciting. "Can you guess what it is?" he asked her, seeming (beneath his hard exterior) almost as excited as she was.

Hermione reviewed the ingredients. Infusion of wormwood, seeds of anise, fennel, Extract of Coffea Arabica, Essence of Sonoran Desert Toad, a sprig of peppermint, and a dash of nutmeg 'for good measure.' She considered the list for a long minute before replying. "It's some sort of daydream potion, isn't it? Something like Fred and George's invention."

To her great astonishment, Snape laughed lightly at that; a deep, rumbling chuckle that made her cheeks warm pleasantly. "It is true that I conceived the idea after studying their product. I found it brilliant, actually. But this goes a step farther than that. To render the subject completely oblivious to his own surroundings; convinced that the story playing out in his head is reality…" Hermione shivered at the realization that this potion was meant for Voldemort, himself. "Of course, I've had quite a bit of trouble with the proportions of various ingredients. It is no simple trick to give someone a dream while keeping them awake. Every detail must be entirely realistic; not the least of which… is touch." At this, to Hermione's shocked exhilaration, her Professor lifted a hand to her face and brushed the skin of her cheek with his knuckles in the slightest whisper of a caress.

She lost the ability to think.

When Hermione's mind returned to her, she noticed the troubled furrow of her Professor's brow. Suddenly, his hand was cupping her face as he leaned down toward her, staring deep into her eyes with the same calculating intensity as before. Hermione forgot to breathe. Then, just as suddenly, he was pulling away, scribbling frantically on another piece of parchment. Hermione stepped closer for a better look. Toward the top of the parchment, one note immediately caught her eye: 'multicolored bear pajamas,' it read. Indeed, she was wearing a set of rather vibrant teddy-bear adorned pajamas, but why had he written it down? Upon closer inspection, the note was scribbled under a broader bullet point that read 'Details I never would have imagined on my own.' Well, that certainly was odd, wasn't it?

Before she had much of a chance to consider that new information, Professor Snape had taken her chin in his hand and was staring into her eyes, once again. His concentration unnerved her and she suddenly had the uncomfortable realization that he didn't even realize that he was violating her personal space. He had taken the potion, hadn't he? And he believed her to be nothing more than a hallucination. The thought unnerved and embarrassed her, making her feel like an intrusion into his private sanctuary. After all, he hadn't ever actually intended to invite her in. If he knew that it truly was her, what would he do? How would he behave? She was too afraid to correct him.

And yet, every scribbled note on his disorganized parchment made guilt throb inside of her. 'Use of extra anise allows for realistic touch,' one note read. But that wasn't really so. She was interfering with his methodical experiment. She was confusing his data. But then he was running his fingers across the soft skin of her face and pushing them back through the loose curls of her hair, and Hermione knew that she could never tell him the truth.

He would never forgive her.

Hermione knew the instant that her Professor's interest changed, like the flip of a switch, from a purely academic endeavor to something more… instinctual. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes and he set down his quill, lifting his free hand to her face and running a rough finger along the crease of her lips. Hermione had to stifle her gasp as heat pooled deep in her belly and a knot began to form inside of her, begging for release. Surely he couldn't be… but then… he was. Severus Snape bent toward her, his breath fanning across her face in quick waves of hot, moist air. She could taste his excitement a moment before his mouth touched hers.

The pressure was frantic and needy and Hermione knew that she ought to correct the man before this went any farther, but she couldn't bring herself to break away now that she had him here. His mouth was softer than anyone could ever imagine the Potions Master's mouth would be, and his desire was palpable as he tasted her swelling lips. She panted into his mouth as his tongue darted out to tease her own, desperate in its impatient hunger. Then, just as quickly, he broke away, returning to his notes and brushing the sweat from his brow.

"All senses engaged," he murmured distractedly, "No longer following predictable behavior."

This was her chance; Hermione felt it in her very core. This was the moment for her to flee back to the safe confines of her bedroom. Tomorrow, she could pretend it never happened.

But she could not seem to leave.

The moment passed and the Potions Master turned back toward her, dropping his quill and meeting her gaze with a hungry expression. She had never seen such intensity from anyone and it made something burn inside of her. She was addicted to this heat. He stepped toward her, never letting his eyes move away, and his mere proximity made her sigh aloud in desperation. She was entirely at his disposal. And she'd never felt more alive.

Then his eyes dipped lower, travelling down her neck and coming to rest on the soft swells of her breasts beneath the nightshirt that she wore. Hermione watched as he lifted his hands to her flesh and she whimpered with need as he cupped her gently, massaging her little orbs in his big hands and letting his eyes fall closed in heady concentration. She had never felt this burning need before, but knew he must be feeling it too, if his slack jaw and almost pained expression were any indication. She wondered what he was going to do with her, but couldn't bring herself to be afraid. He wanted her. That much was clear. And Hermione found that nothing else mattered at all.

His eyes flew open without warning and one hand came up to cup her face, teasing the crease of her lips with his thumb. She parted them for him with a gasp, glorifying in the way he groaned aloud. The sound mirrored her own arousal and only seemed to amplify it. Then, he slipped a finger between her lips, testing her tongue, and she instinctively closed her mouth around it, sucking on the callused digit. Snape growled with arousal, squeezing her breast with his free hand before dropping it to the front of his trousers. Hermione knew a moment's alarm as he swiftly undid the buttons there. She was too afraid to look as he withdrew his shaft from those tight confines and began to stroke himself as he pushed his finger against her tongue. He groaned aloud and Hermione's heart clenched at the thought that she was bringing him pleasure. Oh yes, it was far too late to admit the truth, now.

Suddenly, her Professor's eager hands were at her shoulders, pushing her slowly down onto her knees. He met her gaze and pushed her hair from the sides of her face in an almost affectionate gesture before reaching for his considerable erection and positioning it at the opening of her mouth. She only had the barest moment to study it, however, before the surprisingly soft tip was pushed between her teeth. Her professor groaned aloud, visibly shaken by the pleasure she was giving him. Hermione found it deliciously empowering, despite her lack of control in the situation. The whole affair was so surreal. His hands twisted in her hair, holding her still as he slowly pushed the rest of his hard length into her mouth. When he pulled out, it was only to thrust back in again. Harder and harder he pressed against her until it began to hurt and she found it difficult to breathe. Then, suddenly, he yanked away from her, bracing himself with one hand on the workbench and clenching his eyes in an expression of fierce concentration.

"Oh Merlin," he murmured in a hoarse voice. Then his eyes popped open and he stepped away from her. For a moment, Hermione was confused. Was it over? Was he done? But then he beckoned for her to stand, and helped lift her to her feet. In a moment, she was draped over the workbench and he had stepped behind her. Hermione's breath came quick and shallow as she tried to remain calm. There was no going back, she told herself. There was no stopping what he seemed about to do. And yet, some secret part of her that she was reluctant to accept didn't want him to stop at all.

Both her fear and her anticipation grew in waves of heat as he slipped her pajama pants down her legs, allowing them to pool in cotton puddles at her feet. He stripped her of her shirt, just for good measure, and pressed himself behind her at the bench. Hermione gasped at the feel of his flesh hot against her own, but she moaned when he reached around to cup her breasts, pinching the little nipples and squeezing her rather too roughly for her tastes. Indeed, she had no control. Then he reached a hand between them, stroking the sensitive flesh between her legs and Hermione whimpered into the stillness of the room.

"Gods, you're so wet," he whispered, seemingly unable to put voice to his words. There was a sharp pain as he pressed a finger inside of her and then a heavy pleasure as he twisted it just the right way. Hermione gasped and he rocked against her, apparently as excited by this as she was. "So tight," he moaned, almost incoherently. "A virgin. Gods. Even better than the real thing."

He withdrew his finger in a surge of wet heat and Hermione felt something larger at her entrance. She would probably regret losing her virginity this way, but at the moment, she simply couldn't care. All she knew was the feel of her professor close behind her; his approval throbbing in her core with molten intensity. She wanted him to touch her more.

And then, with one swift thrust, he was inside her. Hermione cried out in pain she had not expected to be so sharp, but the thought was quickly overwhelmed by the realization that Professor Snape was inside of her; touching her; enjoying her; fucking her. He moaned in feral pleasure, rocking softly against her. She knew it was not in order to be gentle, as he believed her to be a hallucination, but rather in order to enjoy every sensation and not to let it end too swiftly. The thought aroused her to no end.

For a few solid minutes, his pace was agonizingly slow. Every little movement seemed to tease the fire deep within her, kindling hot passion that drove her wild. She needed to feel more of him. And slowly, he began to comply.

The Potions Master's steady thrusts grew increasingly vehement and impatient and soon he seemed to lose control, pounding into her with a force that made her cry out in painful ecstasy. Surge after surge of fiery pleasure poured through her body as he sought his release against her skin. Hermione wanted to savor every detail, storing it away for later perusal. Nothing would ever be quite the same after this.

When his thrusts grew harsh and frantic, Hermione instinctively knew that he was on the brink of orgasm. And when he gave one last thrust and cried out into the empty room, pressing against her with desperate force, Hermione knew that he had come. For a long moment, he simply stayed there, hovering above her and behind, caressing the sensitized skin of her back with his hot breath as her mind sought to make sense of what had just occurred. When he pulled out of her, hot liquid spilled across her swollen flesh and Hermione had a sudden urge to cry and sleep cradled in his arms. The feeling left her hollow as his absence deep inside her, but now was not the time for such weakness.

He could never know.

When at last she found the strength to lift herself from the workbench and replace her discarded pajamas, Hermione found the Professor once again scribbling frantically at his parchment. An expression of deepest disgust was imbedded across his features and she hated the look of it upon his face. He couldn't regret this. If he regretted it, then that would leave it open for her to regret as well. But it was too late for that. It had happened. She had done it. And she wasn't sorry at all.

"Is that all?" he asked her in a spiteful voice. "Have you something else with which to torment me?" It was remarkable how quickly he'd returned to his normal, malicious self.

"No," she told him in a weak voice. It was all she could get out before her throat seemed to constrict, cutting off further explanation.

"Then perhaps it would be best if you returned to your bed." He wasn't meeting her eye and Hermione was amazed to see the level of guilt he exhibited. Especially for a man with such a history as his, this self-loathing was beyond disturbing.

"Alright, Professor," she murmured weakly, turning to leave him to his thoughts. "Goodnight." But her professor did not respond, and Hermione made her way up to her bed alone. Lying there in the darkness, she found she could not sleep. Professor Snape, the Bat of the Dungeons, the ex-Death Eater spy, had just shared something truly remarkable with her.

And he could never know.


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