For the Potions Master\'s Amusement

For the Potions Master’s Amusement

Chapter 10: The Wager


Hermione used her new journal faithfully. It was a testament to Professor Snape’s forethought that knowing she would have to report her consumption made her eat more regularly and more carefully. The boys were happy to see that she was eating again and looking better—to the point that they ceased to see anything different about her and began to look right through her, again. Hermione had no problem with that, really; she had her journal, which she kept locked in her bedside table, and she had her luscious secret, which no one could take from her.

Sleeping properly and eating nourishing food returned to her the energy and focus she had always devoted to her studies, and she began to fly through her class work again. She smirked to herself as she thought how appalled Professor McGonagall would be to have to thank Professor Snape for the Head Girl’s improvement in Transfiguration.

Professor Snape remained as he had ever been with her in his classroom, and Hermione was fine with that. Knowing that he was reading her daily accounts of sleeping, eating, and—simultaneously the most exciting and most appalling—masturbating, she was assured of his attention, and for now, it was enough.

The next Saturday, the Gryffindor Quidditch season began with their annual grudge match against Slytherin. Ever the good, supportive friend, Hermione wrapped herself in her House scarf and made her way down to the Quidditch pitch in the crisp November weather. It was a cold, dry day, the sky with the sheen of a pewter cup. Walking along with her hands in her pockets, her eyes upon the ground and her thoughts far from Quidditch, she first became aware of him by his scent—he was wearing his aftershave.

Her heart began to beat faster, and she glanced casually to her left, where she saw his hawkish profile. His hair blew lightly back from his face in the chill breeze, and he scowled straight ahead, as if unaware of her proximity. He walked close enough to facilitate conversation, but not close enough for it to appear that they walked together.

‘Do not appear to be conversing with me, Miss Granger,’ he said, his lips scarcely moving.

‘Certainly not, sir,’ she replied, returning her eyes to watching the ground at her feet, euphoria beginning to bubble in her tummy.

‘I am surprised that you would take time from revising to watch your little friends lose at Quidditch,’ he sneered.

‘My friends are no longer little, sir,’ she replied, ‘and I do not believe they will lose at Quidditch.’ Hermione licked her lips nervously, hoping that she had read his mood correctly—that he desired her participation in this bit of banter—that she would not be punished for impertinence or for arguing.

‘And what would you be willing to wager on the outcome of this sporting event?’ he inquired, his tone taunting.

‘What would be appropriate?’ she asked curiously.

‘If Slytherin wins, you pleasure yourself in my presence, at my direction, for my entertainment. If Gryffindor wins, you receive a spanking with the implement of your choice.’ His tones were clipped, precise; he did not sound at all as if he were speaking to a student about perverse sexual practices.

‘You’re on, sir,’ she said, daring a glance at his face again, but she was disappointed. His expression was unwavering as he glared into the distance. ‘When would the loser make payment?’

‘The sooner the better,’ he replied. ‘My study, tonight, directly after dinner.’

They reached the stands and their ways parted, for he would sit with the teachers, and she would sit with her Housemates.

‘And don’t be late!’ he hissed as he turned away. ‘I have a later engagement in the village and do not wish to be delayed.’

Hermione stared after his retreating back, feeling as if she had been struck, and not in a pleasant way. He had an engagement? He was going to see Taffy-the-cow after being with her?

She scowled fiercely, frightening a group of first-years into scattering before her, allowing her passage through their ranks. We’ll just see about that, Professor, she thought angrily as she took a seat on the end of the bench with the other seventh-year Gryffindors.

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Hermione entered the professor’s office just after six o’clock that evening. She had waited at dinner until she saw him leave the staff table before excusing herself, pleading an excess of Arithmancy homework, and leaving her friends still at table in the Great Hall. It was not until the secret doorway behind his desk glowed green that she realised she was still wearing her clothes from the Quidditch match—trainers, jeans, a long-sleeved tee-shirt beneath a jumper, and her underwear, of course—but how on earth was she to lift her skirt if she wasn’t wearing one? Perhaps she could go back to her room and change …

‘Enter,’ he said, his voice carrying from across the room. He must be sitting at the table in his study.

Damn! Hermione thought. Do I risk going to my room and hope he’ll be glad to see me when I come back? Or go in and hope he’ll understand?

‘Last chance, Hermione,’ he said, and her eyes darted to the doorway, where he now leaned against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore—dear Merlin—a tight white high-necked jumper which emphasised the relative breadth of his chest as compared to his slender torso.

Her mouth went dry, and her mind went blank as she stared at him, wondering how he had managed to shower and change so quickly. His hair, still damp, was combed straight back from his brow; he looked completely different when the inky tips of his hair brushed over his shoulders in this light-coloured jumper, rather than his habitual dark colours.

What was it about this man that struck her dumb with inchoate desire?

‘Hermione,’ he said, and she knew from his tone that his patience was waning.

Scuttling gracelessly across the floor, she squeezed past him, taking a deep breath of the scents of his soap, shampoo, and toothpaste before stopping just past him and staring at the floor. She heard the door close, but she did not raise her eyes; she still did not know what she would say to him about the way she was dressed.

‘Perhaps you would care to enlighten me as to why you would enter my study in this state of dress, Hermione.’

Hermione swallowed and dared to raise her eyes to his. ‘I was so excited to be coming back, I forgot to change my clothes,’ she answered honestly.

He studied her carefully, his face unreadable. After a moment, she averted her eyes again, squirming inside with discomfort. How could he make her feel so small with so little effort? Why did she offer herself up for it?

Because you like it, the snide voice in her head reminded her.

‘I see,’ he said.

Hermione stared at the rug upon the floor, and it was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the clock upon the mantel. It seemed she stood there forever, before she peeked up at him from the corner of her eye, and he caught her at it, raising one sardonic eyebrow interrogatively.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘What are we going to do, sir?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘What do you think we should do, Hermione?’

Well surely even his displeasure would be better than all this standing around in silence! She spoke all in a rush. ‘You said if Gryffindor won I could have a spanking with the implement of my choice, and I choose my hairbrush!’

He nodded. ‘This is, indeed, good information for me to have,’ he said. ‘But you are not appropriately attired for my study, are you, Hermione?’

‘No, sir,’ she agreed.

‘What do you think we should do about that?’ His tone was patient and judicious, but Hermione wasn’t interested in those calm characteristics. She wanted heat and excitement and his hands upon her body.

‘I could promise not to forget again?’ she suggested.

‘I think that might be part of the solution,’ he agreed. ‘But it will not suffice to remedy the situation, will it?’

Hermione felt like stomping her foot in impatience. ‘Well, sir, what will?’ she demanded.

‘Strip,’ he replied curtly, turning and walking away from her.

‘N-naked?’ she stuttered. She had never been completely naked in the presence of anyone—not in her memory, not since she had been old enough to remember it. Even her own mother accorded her more privacy than that!

He stopped at the fireplace and began to stoke the fire with an iron poker. ‘Do you find a fault with that arrangement?’ he inquired dangerously.

‘I could just strip from the waist down,’ she bargained desperately.

He placed the poker back in its stand and turned to her with narrowed eyes. ‘If you insist upon having your own way in this, Hermione, you may not find the spanking to your liking.’

She bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest protectively; a frown now descended upon his face. ‘Jeans and knickers off,’ he ordered tersely. ‘Then bend over the table.’

‘B-but ..’ she began, wondering how the bet she had won—and the spanking she was free to choose—had got away from her.

‘Obey me or leave!’ he thundered at her. ‘I am out of patience with you!’

With trembling hands, Hermione unfastened her jeans; she toed off her trainers and stepped out of her jeans and knickers in one go. Instinct told her to cover herself with her hands, but she knew it would anger him. She hurried to the table and bent herself over it, immediately feeling the magical bonds fasten about her wrists as they had done before. She looked into the imperfect mirror of the glass wall and saw Professor Snape stride up behind her and begin to unfasten his belt.

‘B-but I asked for my hairbrush!’ she cried, remembering how the belt had stung … and how he had buried his face in her slick quim and licked her and sucked her clit until she had all but lost her mind …

‘Be silent,’ he hissed at her. ‘You are in no position to be asking for leniency.’

Hermione subsided, realising that she had seriously displeased him, and wracked her brain to sort out how she had taken a fun occasion and turned it so quickly into a rather frightening one.

‘Number one,’ her professor said, ‘you came into my study—the room you have agreed to enter with your skirt lifted and your cunt exposed—wearing completely unacceptable attire.’

He struck her bum with the belt, and she gasped aloud.

‘Count, Hermione. I want you to count each time I hit your bottom.’

‘One,’ she said, and he stuck her again. By the fifth blow, she was crying, as much from the humiliation as the discomfort. She was confused and upset, and she wanted to be anywhere but here.

When she said, ‘Ten,’ he stopped, slightly out of breath, and spoke to her again.

‘Number two,’ he continued, and she cried harder, realising her ordeal was not at an end. ‘You argued when I gave you a direct order, when you have agreed that in this room, you will do as you are told without question.’

The belt rose and fell again upon her bottom, and she bit her lip not to cry out.

‘You will count again, Hermione, beginning at “one”.’

So she cried and counted as he spanked her bottom with the belt. She hadn’t been thinking about the promises she had made to him before when she came here tonight—she had been thinking about how he had spanked her and pleasured her. She had not given a single thought to their understanding, or to their agreed-upon relative positions in this relationship. She had thought only of her arousal, her excitement, her need—not at all about submitting to his authority or his will—she really hadn’t thought about him at all, except as the sure source of her sexual satisfaction.

When she said, ‘Ten,’ he paused again, more out of breath still, and spoke one last time.

‘You need not count for the next several spanks, Hermione. You may simply cry, and think about what you wish to say to me when your spanking is over.’

The belt fell upon her stinging bottom again, and she allowed herself to sob, knowing she had been thoughtless and selfish, disobedient and disrespectful, and wholly undeserving of his time and attention. He smacked her bum with the belt only five more times, but Hermione sobbed as if her heart would break, feeling the utter devastation of disappointing him.

Her wrists were released, and she was magically swathed in the blanket, then levitated to the couch, where she was permitted to sit beside him. He did not touch her, but he supplied her with his handkerchief and waited for her to stop crying. It was hard to stop; he had become the focal point of her life. Even her eating, sleeping, and revising had become focussed around him and the journal she kept for his perusal—what was she going to do when he told her to get dressed and never come back? How was she going to deal with being dismissed as a submissive in training before she had properly begun?

And why—why—wouldn’t he touch her?

When at last she stopped crying, Professor Snape passed her another clean handkerchief for a final mop-up and followed that with a glass of water. Hermione gulped the water down, wondering if she had cried so much as to become dehydrated. Finally, she returned the empty glass to him and cleared her throat.

‘May I speak?’ she asked, staring down at her hands.

‘You may,’ he concurred.

‘I apologise,’ she said softly. ‘I was thoughtless and disrespectful.’ Her voice broke on the last word and she was choked up again, tears falling silently from her eyes onto the blanket, only to be absorbed by the closely woven fibres.

Professor Snape raised his wand. ‘Accio Hermione’s clothes and shoes,’ he said. When the items dropped into his lap he extended them to her. ‘Get dressed,’ he said quietly. ‘The healing oil for you to add to your bathwater is on the table.’

Still silent, Hermione did as she was told, all thought of modesty completed forgotten. She fastened her jeans and stuffed her feet into her trainers, tears blinding her. When she was dressed, she tried to say good-bye, but her throat would not permit the words to pass, so she pocketed the phial of oil and turned to go.

‘You may leave, of course,’ Professor Snape said, his voice thoughtful, ‘but you may wish to hear what I have to say before you go.’

Hermione stopped in her tracks and turned back to him, wiping ineffectually at her swollen eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. With a shake of his head, her professor stood and walked to her, conjuring yet another handkerchief, which he gave to her.

‘Do you wish to continue with me as your mentor in learning to be a submissive, Hermione?’

Her heart turned over in her chest—was there a possibility, then, that he would let her come back again?

‘Y-yes,’ she gasped.

‘Then you must follow my instructions for the next week to the letter. Do you understand me?’

Wordless, she nodded.

‘You will not touch yourself sexually for the next seven days,’ he said sternly. ‘You will deny yourself release as atonement to me for your disrespectful attitude. Are you willing to do that?’

She nodded her head, hope stuttering in her chest, depriving her of breath. She had never felt less like bringing herself off than she did right now. Thinking too much about that had made her reckless and thoughtless and had nearly cost her the most important thing in her life … her relationship with her professor. Yes, she could easily go without touching herself for seven days.

‘When you come back to this room in seven days, I will use Legilimency to make sure you have been truthful with me, so don’t even think about trying to deceive me.’ His eyes flicked over her without pity, his face showing no emotion. ‘You will continue to follow the other instructions concerning sleeping, eating, and revising. In place of details of your masturbation, you will instead write one thousand words each night before you go to sleep telling me why you want to be a submissive.’ He looked down dispassionately into her face. ‘Right now, I see virtually no evidence of your previously expressed interest in this training, Hermione, and if you do not intend to apply yourself to it, then I will find a more rewarding way of spending my time.’

Hermione nodded her head fervently. He was not sending her away—he was going to give her a chance to make it up to him—anything was better than not being permitted to see him again.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she managed.

‘You may go, now,’ he said, turning away from her.

Hermione fled his presence, a mass of desperation, hope, and determination.

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A/N: Yes, I hate him right now, too. I’ll be interested to know your thoughts on why he’s behaving this way. Reviews feed the Muse!