Weekend with the Professor

The leaves were twirling down on the path to Hogsmeade, and Hermione had never felt so utterly bored in her life. It wasn’t as if she hated being a professor at Hogwarts; rather, she was more satisfied by standing in front of the classroom than by anything else in her life. And perhaps that was the real problem right there.

Satisfaction.

There wasn’t an abundance of it to be found in Hermione’s life. Sure, she’d had more than her usual share of university dalliances due to her status as one of Wizarding Britain’s Golden Heroes… but she’d never pursued any boy in particular. They were all boys, really, that’s all they were, and she desired something more. Something that would douse the flames dancing on the taut skin of her belly, and reignite them again.

Repeat ad infinitum.


* * * * * *

If there was anything less pleasant than babysitting the coltish third years on trips to raid Zonko’s and guzzle butterbeer whilst staring at Rosmerta in the Three Broomsticks, it was sharing the responsibility for the term with Professor Granger. Professor Snape dislodged a lank bit of hair from his face with a toss of the head, and dug his hands more deeply into the pockets hidden within his cloak. Maybe he could steal off and knock back a few shots of Ogden’s before carrying on with his Saturday duties. The Granger girl’s chatter had proven insufferable the last couple of Hogsmeade weekends, and all Snape wanted were his fire-warmed chambers in the dungeon and a few choice alchemical journals. Definitely not the former bushy-haired know-it-all who had been surprisingly transformed through the years into a rather nice looking young professor.

Damn. Minerva would pay for pairing him with Hermione this season.

* * * * * *

When everyone wasn’t looking, Hermione gave into temptation and shook the last few shy little Hufflepuff stragglers who clung to her cloak in the direction of Honeydukes. Slipping into the Three Broomsticks, she spied a table tucked into a back, shadowy corner not far from the fire. The frost which had been so invigorating at the beginning of their walk had soaked into her, and Hermione marveled at her body’s ability to be both freezing cold and hot with frustrated desire at the same time.

But she was in her mid-twenties, and it had to be normal. At least, every development book she’d read about mature sexuality in post-adolescence had identified the intense, occasional desire to fornicate as a natural development. She actually preferred it as a step up from the constant hormonal fever pitch of her teen years.

Shrugging her cloak off, Hermione glided past the throng around the bar, nodding and smiling to a few familiar faces. That secluded little table would be a perfect place to hide out, nurse exactly two butterbeers, and lose herself in a deliciously inappropriate daydream.

* * * * * *

Snape was glad he’d suggested Hermione take the tail end of the Hogsmeade group. He slipped forward quickly as they hit the village perimeter and sidled through a couple of side streets straight towards the Three Broomsticks. “Blessed relief,” he murmured silkily. The warmth of the crowded pub struck him all at once and he slid out of his cloak, eying a choice table discreetly placed near the back. He congratulated himself with the thought that this Saturday might be tolerable after all and settled in with a decanter of whisky brought by the willing Rosmerta.

Imagine the surprise, then, when Snape found himself with a lapful of hot, blushing young woman.

Hermione’s cheeks felt as if they’d fall straight off from the heat of the fire, her embarrassment, and the strange sizzling sensation zinging through her belly. She felt tight in the oddest places, which was appropriate seeing as how she’d just mistaken the oddest place for a nice chair at the pub. Snape might appear gaunt and thin, but her rounded bottom had fitted perfectly against him for a moment that seemed to have etched itself for posterity against her, uh, posterior.
“Miss Granger, do you make a habit of approaching all gentlemen in the Three Broomsticks in such a manner?” Snape’s voice was low and thick, with a strange tang to it she’d never heard before. Instead of snapping at her like a disagreeable hippogriff, as she might have predicted (had she ever fantasized about wiggling her bum into Snape’s lap), he seemed amused and… drunk?

“Professor, I—I didn’t realize, sorry, sorry,” she mumbled and glanced around desperately for another table. The damned place was full of the weekend trade, plus Hogwarts students. Luckily none of them could really see into the alcove that Snape had claimed.

“Oh, Granger,” he growled, taking another sip of Ogden’s, “sit your pretty little arse down. In a chair, mind,” he chuckled. Hermione couldn’t believe that he was inviting her to stay after that embarrassing incident.

She mainly couldn’t believe how Snape, of all people, had ratcheted up her sexual frustration from Itchy to Quite Wet. Recovery seemed to be her only option.

“Thanks,” she replied breezily. Yes, recovery and nonchalance would rule the day.

“A drink?” God, how did his eyebrow arch like that?

“Whatever you’re having.” She crossed her legs and her robes outlined a plump thigh. Snape was almost positive that he was the only one in the Three Broomsticks with such a lovely view. It was a bit nauseating, really, that Granger was the object of his mildly intoxicated desires, but it really had been a while for him. He decided to toy with her a bit and make her blush again. After all, what else was he going to do before he swept back up the castle for dinner?

Snape eased forward and to the side, craning his head round Hermione. His hand gripped her knee then slid forward precisely one inch as he did, calling out to Rosmerta for another glass and a top off for the whisky. Now, it begins, he thought smugly. He’d have her running out the door in five minutes, tops. Then he could drink in peace before having to return to Hogwarts with the brats.


Hermione realized that Quite Wet had been trumped by Throbbing and Pulsating. Snape had let his fingers linger for just a smidge too long on her lower thigh, and it was not what she needed. He let the corners of his mouth tilt up slightly, then poured them out a shot to take with the equipment Rosmerta had promptly deposited on their little table of torture.

“To what shall we drink, Miss—er, Professor Granger?”

Sassy, I could try sassy, she thought. “Let’s drink to a pleasant autumn afternoon, sir.” Her smug little grin coupled with the sir confused the hell out of him. What was that strange feeling that threatened to kill his nicely stoked buzz?

They drank. Hermione watched as his tongue snaked out to stroke the last of the Ogden’s from his thin mouth, and Snape watched as Hermione’s moist lips parted slightly. Ah, that’s it, he thought, she turns me on. Who would have ever thought that she’d become a woman, and a desirable one at that?

Whatever game Snape was playing, Hermione was determined to play it better. I’ll up the ante until he can’t stand the heat. Drinking or not.

She giggled, instinctively imitating the tarts she’d watched in disgust at university. “Oh, Professor, we should drink to your brilliant new article in Ars Alchemica as well.”

And so they found inane reasons to pound shots in a manner not entirely suited to Hogsmeade chaperones or Hogwarts professors. She countered his hand on the knee with a brief brushing of hands at the decanter. He parried back by trapping a leg between his under the table. She caught a drop of imaginary whisky with her fingertip, tracing a bit of his lip.

He shifted in his seat.

She found herself brushing the side of her breasts in a tortured attempt to ease the tension as she pretended to yawn.

Both of them felt that the whisky paled in comparison to the intoxication they could smell when their scents rose from the heat and twined invisibly above their glasses.

* * * * * *

When Rosmerta informed them that she’d started serving dinner, and the soup du jour was a nice oyster chowder, they both stood up too quickly.

“Merlin! My head,” she moaned none too quietly.

Snape grunted painfully. He’d had a decent headstart on Hermione (when had she transformed from Professor Granger to Hermione, by the way?). No real lunch to speak of, and the pair of them were distinctly the worse for wear.

“No, Rosmerta, really, we must find the stragglers and head back to Hogwarts.”

“Thanks all the same,” Hermione slurred very slightly on sibilants, Snape noted. Why on earth does that appeal to me? I’ve got to get rid of her or else this little situation threatens to become quite dangerous indeed.

She felt as though she’d won, managing to get through an Ogden’s soaked afternoon with Snape and play his stupid game. All he’d wanted was to be rid of her, and she hadn’t given him the satisfaction.

“Until next month, then, Rosmerta,” Snape muttered. He slid Hermione’s arm neatly into his own and in one smooth motion, guided her out the door and into the brisk late October chill.

* * * * * *

Three steps out the door, and Hermione knew she wanted this. The pull was too much, and as they rounded a grove of trees she pulled Snape off the path.

“Professor Gra—Hermione.” He hovered, his face just above hers, and decided to really scare her. So far, she was proving just as thick at social interaction as a drunk adult as she had as a sober teenager. He moved so close to her so that his body hid her from sight of the path, which was abandoned to the autumn leaves skittering in the wind.

“Ah, Severus,” she breathed, and ran her hands up his neck and onto his face. The jolt that rocked him when she claimed his lips with hers took him by surprise. He no longer wanted to shock her, scare her, send her running. He merely wanted her, and if that’s what she wanted too then he could think of worse ways to spend a damp, cold fall evening.

She gasped and giggled as he began to kiss her back, wandering to the hollow of her neck and back again to silence her. The firewhisky was igniting the sparks in her blood, and she felt as happy and light as she ever had. “Severus, um, Se—“ here he swallowed her words, “don’t you want to… mmmm… let’s…”

Hermione unceremoniously pushed him off her, both of them panting heavily.

“My chambers,” they ordered in unison.

* * * * * *