Parvus Obitus

A/N - Writing smut is so much harder than it looks. No pun intended. I would
like to thank my friend Jason - the \"Technical Advisor\" (as he asked to be
called) for this chapter. There is a truely horrible line somewhere in here that
I was planning on changing until my beta Beck started yelling \"Voldemort naked
on a cold day. Voldemort naked on a cold day.\" I had to keep the line after
that.

Part Two

Snape stumbled into his lab and quickly righted himself. He blamed his
momentary lack of coordination on the muddled thoughts clouding his mind.

Yes, he had the potion ingredient. But at what cost?

Until tonight, he and Ms. Granger had established a peaceful, almost
friendly, working relationship. They had both managed to look past the
unfortunate details of her youth. *Namely Potter and Weasley.*

Snape crossed the room and inspected the simmering cauldron containing the
unfinished Parvus Obitus. Another hour and it would be ready for the last
ingredient.

He carefully placed his wand on the counter and sat on one of the stools.

Snape leaned forward to press his warm face against the cool stone of the
counter top.

Just six months ago he had ridiculed Potter and Weasley for the very same
thing he was now guilty of. He and Ms. Granger had been waiting for a difficult
potion to set, one that had to be watched closely for any sign of spoiling.
Their conversation had eventually turned toward the summer holidays. She had
asked for two weeks off to travel with the young men, and Snape had inquired as
to who else would be joining them.

“Why would anyone else be coming with us?” Her look of confusion had cleared
after a few moments. “Oh, you mean because of Voldemort.” She ignored Snape’s
wince.

“Albus has us taken care of. He’s got all sorts of anti-detection and
appearance-altering spells for us. We’ll be fine.”

Snape had stared at her; capture by Voldemort hadn’t even occurred to him. At
the time, he had ignored the twinge that told him the Dark Lord should have been his first concern.

Should have, but wasn’t.

“You’re planning on traveling to America - hedonist capitol of the world –
and sharing hotel rooms with two young men and no one has even suggested
the need for a chaperone?”

A strange mood had overtaken her, twisting her features into a hard mask.

“Why would we need a chaperone? To Ron and Harry, I’m just one of the boys,
same as Seamus or Neville.”

He had looked at her closely, from head to toe and back again, before
speaking.

“You may not spend countless hours fretting over your hair and clothes, but I
fail to see how Potter and Weasley could mistake you for a boy.”

Ms. Granger had gotten another strange look upon her face and had opened her
mouth to reply when the cauldron between them had given an odd hiss. They had
been far too busy containing the near disaster to remember the awkward
conversation.

Snape groaned against the counter.

It had been so easy to think of Ms. Granger as a brilliant mind, he had
completely forgotten she was a woman.

And now, he could think of little else.

Snape turned his head slightly to watch the last grains of sand drop through
the hour glass next to the cauldron.

It was time.

He held the wand just above the simmering liquid and spoke the incantation to
release the captured sounds. The wand had been charmed to respond only to Ms.
Granger’s building release, nothing else. The recording, as it were, was
thankfully short. Only a minute long, really.

Sixty seconds of pure torture for Snape, as her shuttered moans filled the
small lab.

The sweet catch in her voice as she began to gasp something low and
breathless made him lean his hips against the counter for support.

The slow burn of arousal that had remained with him since he’d left her
flared up and caught fire. Snape bit down hard on his lower lip to smother his
own groan of need. His eyes closed involuntarily as he once again pictured her
writhing under his sweat-covered body.

Her unintelligible groans turned into one word, repeated over and over.

His name.

His heart had been pounding so hard before, blood rushing through his veins
so loudly, that he hadn’t realized the sound wrenched from her shaking body as
she found her release had been his name.

He held himself still until the last echoes of her passion-filled voice died.


He waved a hand to shut off the flame under the cauldron and dropped the wand
as if it were on fire.

There was a faint tremor in his hands and a flush to his skin.

With the potion completed his mind no longer had any hope of distraction from
the need threatening to overpower him.

A muttered phrase and a subtle gesture later, a small door appeared on the
far wall of the lab.

Snape hurried through it, hands already wng tng to remove his heavy teaching
robes. He paused just inside the doorway and glared at the flames in the
fireplace, relieved to have found a distraction. Obviously, one of the house
elves had managed to sneak into his rooms again. Someday he would discover a
ward that would keep the little buggers out of his living quarters. The voice in
his head immediately suggested finding Ms. Granger and asking her advice. Or,
just finding Ms. Granger, period.

Snape dropped the robe where he stood and slowly began pulling at the buttons
of his frock coat.

Ms. Granger’s voice continued to haunt him. One hand involuntarily traveled
down, past his taut stomach, to press against his groin. Snape bit back a moan
as he cupped his hard length. Just hearing his name from her lips had brought
him immediately back to complete arousal.

With renewed desperation he worked at the buttons of the frock coat until it
too was tossed into a dark heap on the floor.

Frustration caused him to pull his white dress shirt open, unmindful of the
buttons that flew off.

He fell into his favorite chair near the fire, thankful for the heat that was
beginning to chase the chill of the dungeon from his newly exposed skin.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair as his hand
slipped into the opening of his ruined shirt.

Hermione.

What would she do if she ever saw him like this, flushed and aching and
desperate for her touch ... her mouth?

He could picture her walking ... no, slinking, toward him. Her long, curly
hair loose around her face, trailing down to rest against her negligee-covered
breasts. *Her green negligee. Since she’s my fantasy, she can wear the
colors of my house.*

She was a seductress, a siren. The sway of her hips drew his eyes to the
place he wanted, needed, to be.

She dropped to her knees in front of his chair, so close her wayward curls
brushed against the legs of his trousers. Her head tilted to the side as she
looked up at him.

“Severus.” His name on her lips.

Heaven. Or Hell. He didn’t care anymore.

“Let me touch you?” Her voice was a question.

He let himself get lost in the fantasy. The lightly calloused fingers of his
hands soon became her soft, delicate digits.

Slowly his/her hands slid down his chest to the waistline of his pants.


– ~ –

Hermione paused outside Severus’ – No, Professor Snape’s – private lab. A
nervous hand reached up to tuck a wet curl back into the lopsided mess atop her
head. She had made only a half-hearted effort pin it up after her shower, and
the wet mass kept sliding loose.

She had stared at the empty fireplace long after Professor Snape had
disappeared. The repercussions of what she had done, what she’d let him see. It
seemed like forever before she’d blinked and stepped back into her bedroom.

The bed seemed to mock her.

Obviously her behavior had embarrassed him. He must have been horrified.

“He said he ... enjoyed it.” She spoke to the empty room.

*Of course he did. He remembered the real reason for that little
performance. He would have said anything make it easier for you to finish.
Sometimes you really are a silly little girl, Hermione.*

“But he ... sounded ...”

*He ran out of here like the very hounds of Hades were upon him, didn’t
he?*

“The potion ...”

*Had at least another hour before the last ingredient could be added. He
did what he needed to do. Don’t let yourself read anything more into it.*

She didn’t feel bad about what they had done; as she had explained to the
professor, there was no way she was going to send him back without that potion.

It was the thought of what he was going to say when they next met that caused
the sick feeling in her stomach. She She had hoped a shower would wash away the butterflies and leave her with a
clear head, but it only gave her more time to worry.

And now she was standing outside the lab, still uncertain as to what his
reaction would be.

*Gods, don’t let him think I’m infatuated with him. How will I face him if
he thinks I have some silly crush on him.

All right, Hermione. You can do this. Just walk in, wait for the right time
and ...

And what? Say “Sorry I used that magnificent voice of yours as a sexual aid,
Professor. Won’t happen again.”

Can’t say that, can you? Wouldn’t be true. After all, you’ve done it
before.*

Hermione stomped her foot in frustration before she remembered where she was.
She looked up and down the corridor to make sure no one had seen her outburst.

After a few deep, calming breaths she lowered the ward to the lab and walked
in.

Her carefully rehearsed, studiously casual greeting died on her lips.

The lab was empty.

At a momentary loss, Hermione looked around the lab for a clue as to what she
should do. She noticed a faint light coming from the back of the lab. She knew
there was a door back there; Professor Snape had disappeared through it on a few
occasions to retrieve a book or some forgotten notes. He had never told her
where it led to, and she had never found the right opportunity to ask.

“Professor?”

Silence was her only answer.

She cautiously crept closer to the door. “Professor?” Her oft-heralded
courage was beginning to desert her, and her voice wasn’t much louder than a
whisper.

If there was one thing she had learned from her childhood years with the
boys, it was that there was a very fine line between bravery and stupidity. The
trick was being able to tell the difference.

What she was about to do would no doubt fall on the side of stupidity.

Hermione reached the partially open door and peeked around the doorframe.

He was seated in a worn chair in front of the fire. His eyes were closed, and
his face was flushed and drawn.

Hermione opened her mouth to apologize for intruding when the movement of his
hands caught her attention.

*Oh. My.*

His left hand was rubbing lazy circles across the bare expanse of his chest.
His right ... his right was partially hidden by the open fly of his trousers.

Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she couldn’t have said anything even if she
wanted to. All she could do was watch.

He groaned as his left hand slid down to join the right. His lips were
parted, and she could hear the harsh sounds of his breathing.

“Touch me.” It was almost a plea.

Hermione had actually taken a step toward him before she realized he wasn’t
talking to her. He was lost in the moment.

And she really shouldn’t be here.

Snape freed his erection, the fingers of one hand trailing across the
sensitive head. Hermione’s gasp was drowned out by his.

She watched as he pleasured himself, the analytical part of her mind
cataloging each touch, each moan-inducing movement, for future reference. The
idea that she might someday need to know how he liked to be touched made her
knees weak. The heat between her legs was becoming unbearable. Soon her gasps
mirrored his.

His hips were beginning to thrust in time with the strokes of his hand. His
free hand slid into his trousers, and he jerked at the contact.

“I’m close. Come with me.”

She was tempted. For a second she let herself pretend that he was talking to
her.

“Come for me like you did before. For me, no one else.” His pace quickened.

“Scream my name, Hermione. Oh, gods.” He arched off chair with the force of
his orgasm.

Hermione’s heart froze at the sound of her name. Her legs suddenly felt like
jelly and she stumbled backward, knocking into a stool. She righted the stool as
quickly as possible and listened to see if he had heard the noise.

“Who’s there?”

She could hear him moving in the other room, and panic almost set in. There
wouldn’t be nearly enough time to escape.

Hermione leaned over the cauldron and did everything in her power to think of
something other than what she’d just witnessed. *Voldemort. Think of
Voldemort.*

“Professor, are you in there? I wanted to make sure the potion turned out.”
She raised her voice to be heard in the other room.

Seconds later, Snape opened the door fully and stood silhouetted in the
doorway. His pants were fastened; the dress shirt hung open.

His dark eyes studied her for a moment. She could hear the pounding of her
heart, and she prayed that he would attribute her nervousness to the events in
her room.

“It is considered common courtesy to announce one’s presence, Ms. Granger.”
He disappeared back into the room for a moment.

She looked at the ink-black potion, intent on finding something to distract
him. “Is it supposed to be that color?”

She was relieved to see him shrugging into his frock coat when he returned.
He’d put on another dress shirt as well. Hermione didn’t think she would have
been able to string together two words, much less coherent sentences, if he
hadn’t.


– ~ –

Snape watched her leave twenty minutes later. He’d been afraid that she’d
heard him earlier, but she gave no indication that she’d even known he was near
until he had come to the door.

She had been nervous, but that was to be expected. It appeared that Ms.
Granger’s experience with the intimacies of the opposite sex was extremely
limited.

*Which is probably a blessing, considering the fact that you get aroused
just by being in the same room with her.*

He had tried to distance his fantasy from the real woman, but at some point
the practiced seductress in green had turned into the more familiar visage of
his apprentice. In the fantasy he had looked down and her long hair had been
pulled up into one of those ineffectual knots that never seemed to properly
contain the curly mass. Her ruby red lips had returned to their natural color.
Her revealing negligee had been replaced with the robe she often wore for lab
work.

That was what had sent him over the edge. The face of his Ms. Granger,
not some made-up siren, intent on pleasing him.

He rubbed his face with both hands and groaned. *I’m definitely getting
too old for this.*

The Dark Lord would call for him in less than twelve hours. If Snape was
going to keep his wits about him, he would need to sleep soon.


tbc