The Wage of Sin

Disclaimer: JKR owns all, and deserves all her millions. I borrow them for pleasure, not profit.

This is the first piece I’ve ever shared, so please, review and be kind. I don’t have a beta, so all errors are entirely mine. I\'ve edited this to increase the readabilty; I see what you meant, Andrea, thanks!

THEFT

Bugger it, how do I get into these things?

It’s not the booze: I’ve hogged the juice bowl. I’m know as the common sense witch. Every time I’ve landed in trouble on these premises, it’s been as the agent of others.

Namely: Potter, H, and Weasley, R.

Graduation, says Dumbledore, marks our entry into adulthood. Those two got stuck midway through fourth year, and usually it’s what makes their company so appealing to the serious young woman I’ve become.

Not tonight. On who else’s behalf would I be sneaking into the chilly dungeons to steal from my only-just-ex potions teacher?

It’s the third time I’ve made this perilous trip for what they’ve termed a noble cause. Hm. Not quite sure, personally, that the illicit brewing of a lust potion for palming into Tonks’ drink qualifies.

Damn Ron and his stupid crush. Blast Harry and his puppy-eyes. They know I hate doing this.

However, I’m a soft touch, they whined until I gave way, and by brewing the potion myself, I can ensure it’s more inhibition relaxant than stimulant of false feelings. The limits of what Hermione won’t do for a pal are still being tested, but I know what’s beyond the pale.

I’d sooner swig polyjuice, impersonate Tonks, and let Ron shag me (daren’t puke, Snape will smell vomit whatever freshening charm I use) than help him have his wicked way with a witch who, under her own control, wouldn’t look at him twice.

According to the Marauders’ map (Harry’s contribution to the team effort) the local resident’s from home, probably breaking up unlawfully copulating couples. Must irk him, he can’t deduct points/assign detentions/scream for txpulxpulsion of The Dream Team any more.

Ex-pupils now. Grown-ups. That knowledge alone sustains me as I raise my wand to the protective wards I know surround his dinghy classroom.

Pity he won’t return to our Graduation Ball. Might keep a drop of my creation for him. Snape sans inhibitions, I’d pay to see that!

The door swings inward, sharp turn into the stores, concentrate now, Hermione. You’re here as the only one able to fathom the Snape storage system. Minds work in a similar way.

That should scare me, as the boys remind me often. Turning into Snape?

I laugh at them while they think I’m sharing their joke. They can’t understand the compliment they pay. His mind is the most brilliant in British Wizarding.

Unicorns’ tears, unicorns’ tears, yes, right where I thought, unlabelled, between comfrey and bat spleen, ingredients they’re often combined with.

Does the Dungeon Bat feel guilty, using pickled parts of his near kin?

One…two…three, that’s it, stopper the jar and turn, my (Ron’s?) treasure clutched to my heart. Buggeration!

Footsteps echo weirdly in Hogwarts’ corridors, but those are heading my way.

Can’t be Snape. He’s out scouring the halls. Snape doesn’t tramp down hallways. Man must float, not walk.

Uh-oh. The wards reset automatically, and that’s his dark voice lowering them. OK, don’t panic, he doesn’t know you’re here.

Because you’re not meant to be, nitwit.

No time to think. The door opposite this leads to his office, barrel through and wait, he’ll probably just check his store room (did shut the door, I s I shut the door) and go.

Bollocks.

He’s passed the store room. Don’t panic, he can’t get you thrown out now. Only kill you.

Salvn! n! Been in here countless times, dressings down (kinky!) and detention, and always thought he had a bookcase behind his marking chair, not a door. Must lead to his private chambers.

Typical, really. Living over the shop.

Fall through the uncloaked door, who cares where it leads so long as I\'m out of his way, don’t breathe too loud. Oh, now this is nice.

What am I thinking? Panting, sweaty palms wrapped around stolen goods while I check my old hate-object’s décor like Linda Barker on a bad day, with the man himself, in all his midnight splendour, muttering on the other side of the wall.

Please, Fates, be kind to Hermione. Let him find what he’s come for, and go.

He’s swearing. With an economy of effort I find as impressivethe the cusses themselves. Peeking through the crack I’ve left (never shut yourself in a Hogwarts room you’d be embarrassed to scream for rescue from) I can see him, so near that if he stooped a tad more, I could spit in his eye.

Stop there, Professor, that’s right. Yes, your bookshelves; impressive, aren’t they? Oh, no! This isn’t the time to be picking out War And sodding Peace and settling in for a good, long read!

Never been in his personal space. Student opinion would be outraged.

Earth-tones predominate; thick green carpet, two high-backed leather chairs and an elongated sofa are being warmed by an apple wood fire. No chained skeletons, and no oak coffin lined with tattered red silk. Holy Merlin, I’ve died and gone to bibliophile heaven!

Floor-to-ceiling shelves are stuffed with a collection Madam Pince woulll fll for. They’re broken only for two doors, a pair of Gothic arched windows, and a large tapestry of the House crest facing what looks like a bedroom.

That clunk was my heart, smacking the floor. He’s coming in. And while I might have found an excuse for haunting his class or office, what possible explanation could there be for the hated know-it-all being in his living room?

Maybe if I come over all sultry, wind around him and kiss the tempting white length of his neck. Claim I’m here to seduce him.

What did Harry say was in the pumpkin juice?

Where did that come from?

All right, my most secret fantasies.

And thanks to diving through a connecting door, I\'m spinning them in his bedroom, for Pity\'s sake.

I’m in Severus Snape’s bedroom!

Bed’s bigger than standard, but has to be if it’s to accommodate all his luscious length. Dark green velvet drapes, coverlet, ditto. Silver ropes and trim. Secret sensualist are you, Severus Snape of Slytherin House?

Can’t resist a peep. How long have we debated this point?

Yes, green satin sheets. That’s ten galleons you owe me, Miss Brown. He probably has blood to match.

No. I watched him drop like a great black boulder to the last hex Voldemort threw before our combined Killing Curses did their stuff. Snape bleeds red. Human, after all.

He’s getting closer. How the blazes do I explain getting collared fondling his bedlinen?

Think, Granger! There\'s a low door beyond the bed, dive through it before he gets in, hope he didn’t hear the swearword as toe impacted with - Glory!

Not a sensualist. Whole-hog hedonist. That circular marble tub is decadent.

I’m getting to like this unseen side of Snape.

Stick my eye to the crack between door panels, twist my neck, I can see him; slumped on the edge of the bed, face buried in those deft, sinewy hands. Exhausted, poor sod. No wonder the last thing he wanted to do tonight (and it showed) was chaperone a bunch of drunken teens through their final school ball.

He straightens his shoulders, pushes back his hair. That’s changed since Voldy’s fall, lost the washed-in-lard look. Has someone slipped him a bottle of shampoo?

Ugh, horrible imag sim simpering Snape flicking back silky tresses for TV cameras. “Now I Wash and Go!” Yuck.

Merlin’s Father Christmas boxers, he’s yanking off his robes.

Though they were sewn on.

Please, Sir, that’s far enough. Can’t have the former Head Girl hyperventilating in your bathroom.

Hell’s bleeding, wanking Bells, he’s coming in here.

What a night of treats. Now get to see the dread professor pee.

Have speculated on the necessary equipment, if with other purpose in mind.

Find a place to hide, can’t get caught now, why the buggery didn’t you insist on borrowing the bloody invisibility cloak?

Whoops bathtub’s full.

Or was, until I displaced my weight in water. Poke wand over the rim, try and aim the drying charm. Can’t have him slipping and cracking his skull open. Imagine the gossip if I ran into the Great Hall screaming to Madam Pomfrey for help. Ouch! He certainly likes it hot!

Sod the heat, this is Heaven. Deadly sexy scent, all woods and herbs, and mountains of creamy, champagne-coloured bubbles. Can I stay here, please?

Duck. How long can a registered Bigmouth keep it zipped?

More pertinent, how did Granger, H, graduate top of her class when her great idea in a crisis is to leap headlong into the bath of He-Who-Must-Be-Dodged?

Can’t mistake the rippling of air that accompanies his smallest step. Whistling; almost relaxed. Anticipating a lovely soak in a wonderful, wicked tub. Now what?

Wish I knew the shrinking spell the twins used on Ron when he was six. Hang on, Professor, bear with me while I chase an obscure trick charm from your favourite family quidditch team. Don’t strip yet.

Strip? Did I say strip?

People tend to undress before immersing themselves in hot water, Hermione.

I can hear buttons popping. A deep, manly sigh ripples the water’s surface.

Got to give him that, he’s all man.

In a big way.

Mum says we’re all born with a besetting sin. It just happens that curiosity’s mine.

Mind, I’d have to be thick or dead not to watch this.

And he’s provided lighting.. Thank you, Sir, never knew you cared.

Aah, perfect, scented with sandalwood; potent enough to mask the fragrance I know is bubbling out between my legs. Keep ‘em tight, Hermione.

If I peep carefully enough over this high edge, he won’t spot me.

And he won’t notice a thing when he climbs in and tries to stretch those endless legs? Something tells me a perceptive wizard might notice uninvited company then.

Would worry more if he weren’t slithering out of his shirt, exposing a highly respectable pair of shoulders that roll against the tension twisting their muscles. Fancy a backrub, Sir?

He’s not skinny at all; lean and wiry, but oh! What toning!

Gryffindor brainbox is out to lunch. Eyes popping, try to focus on the hellish predicament Ron’s put me in. Snape lets fall another delicious sigh (can sighs have a taste? May I conduct a small practical experiment?) and stretches, fingertips extended to the low ceiling.

No expert, but strongly suspect that’s one heck of a back view, despite the rigging of scars across the breadth. Itching to see if the front matches.

Come on, ‘Mione (why am I calling myself that? I hate being called that!), confess and take your medicinal potion. Longer you wait, the more embarrassing…

Oh, Lord. Going to faint.

He’s shimmying out of his pants. Jesus,y any and Merlin, I’m shaking. Surely he hears the water splash?

Not fear now. Naked, angry lust.

He’s magnificent. Now know why he goes for flowing robes.

Only a snatched sight of Snape’s Asset; just enough to confirm that even flaccid, he’s huge. Big hooter, big you-know-what, as the saying goes.

Great arse. Tight, high, firm. Get a good perv as his pelvis juts to the front and he rubs the small of his back, right where I get sore after too long stooped over a workbench. About that backrub, the offer’s on the table…

Mouth’s dry. Can’t stare any more. Only have to loose the clench of my jaw to get half a bathful to drink, but suspect sound of Hermione choking might startle my oblivious companion. Wouldn’t be a bright idea.

OK, not had many of them since getting up this morning. Keep low, he’s turning.

Blast. Heat’s turning exposed flesh lobster (deeply unflattering) while whorls of scented steam are playing havoc with the hairdo. Lucky I’ve never been obsessed with my appearance.

Just now, far more interested in his.

I’m aroused. Sticky between the thighs.

So aroused, am in grave danger of forgetting - well - gravity of this whole situation.

At least his candles cover my scent. Even the sensitive nostrils of the master scientist won’t pick me up.

Goodness! If he kills me, I’ll go happy for having seen him this way, even through a watery haze. Flex those shoulders again, my Slytherin Sex-God, I’m enthralled by the rippling play of muscle. Give anything for a frontal view.

Here he comes; a toe first, then a pained clamber in, a moan of relief hitting the wall. Head under, breath held, curl up and hope the bubbles cover the sodden mess I call hair.

Water swirling feels incredibly erotic against my skin; stupid thought to have at a moment of supreme crisis. What wouldn’t I give for the diminishing spell? Of course I’ve got my wand, a wise witch is never - oh!

Why must I always think as a Muggle? Leap up, cast Obliviate, and run like the clappers of Hell.

Legs aren’t responding. Is there a Plan B?

Diminuento? Just-make-me-a-bleeding-midget-fast? Oh, shit.

Something firm and bony just butted my knee.

There’s definitely no Plan B.