Smoke and Fire

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In this chapter you will learn what our beloved Potions Master prefers as a
recreation technique. And yes, it is incredibly out of canon character.

Sue me or simply enjoy.

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Heartaches and Headaches


Hermione Granger huffed angrily as she shifted the pile of books on her desk. She huffed
again and reorganized the books for the fifth time in as many minutes. As she reflected on her behaviour, she grew even more upset.

She stormed out of her small apartment to get some fresh air.

Her good-for-nothing boyfriend, ex-boyfriend to be exact, had decided that she had made him wait too long for it, therefore he had hooked up with some prissy bimbo who was more willing to do what boys loved to do.



Fine then.

Paul was not the brightest crayon in the box but he had at least shown genuine interest in her. Yes, he had even taken to woo her with chocolate and flowers.
At long last,charmed by his persistence, she had relented even though her mind was mostly set on intellectual stimulus, i.e. books… and a very dark, yet very bright crayon.

She smirked.

It had taken her more than a year to admit it to herself. She fancied Severus Snape.

Eeeew!

She fancied the most wicked teacher at Hogwarts. Various attempts to reason and rid herself of that dark attraction had miserably failed. The last attempt had been puppy-eyed persistent pursuer Paul. But it had never felt right. There were no butterflies in
her stomach when she was with him. She had thought that he would be able to distract her with his cheerfulness. And she felt that he may be the best boy to take her virginity. To accomplish that mission with as much dignity as possible she had read every book on Sex and Sensuality she could get her hands on. She wanted to be prepared, she wanted it to be perfect – or at least as good as possible.

So much for theory. Harsh reality was that Paul and her had never moved past second base because it just had not felt right. Well, it was not quite accurate:
They had got stuck somewhere between first and second base.

Damn Paul! Paul puppy-eye was a boy. She wanted a man.

Who was Paul anyway?

Angrily she marched briskly through London. She needed something to soothe the feeling of
frustration. Life had been good when she was still with Harry and Ron. They were like brothers, reckless but good company.

Suddenly she knew what she wanted. A butterbeer. Hogsmeade. A retreat to the good old times for some comfort.

Before she knew it, she had directed her steps to the next alley and disapparated with a
loud crack.

* * * * *



Severus Snape slammed the door behind him.

Great Scot, how teaching pissed him off!

Today Milton Hayes, a clumsy third year Slytherin had managed to melt seven cauldrons
in just one double potions lesson. This boy was the legal heir to his royal Longbottom-Dunderheadedness.

The trouble was that he was in Slytherin.

Snape was more than ever convinced that the Sorting Hat must have had a bad hair day when Hayes was sorted. Such a shame. A student of his own house!
Moreover, Milton’s father was a wealthy man, which meant: No detention. No deducting
house points. Just bloody embarassment in front of bloody Gryffindors.

He needed to distract his mind. He needed to unwind.

A dirty smile played on his lips.

He fumbled with his robes, accioed a bottle of baby oil and lubricated his hands. Still leaning against the door with his back, he started stroking himself.

Ahhhhhh yessssss!

While his right hand was stroking rhythmically up and down, his left hand teased his balls. He conjured up a picture of a naked Amber Weird, singer of ‘The Weird Sisters’, one of the three women he longed to bonk into unconsciousness. His or hers -- whichever came first.

Just before he was about to cross the point of no return, he went slower to delay the climax a bit. His knees trembled. He could not stand it anymore and rubbed himself frantically into a quick but good orgasm.

Six out of ten.

Panting he let himself slide to the floor. It did not take long for reality to catch up with the afterglow. As much as he liked pleasing himself, the effects were always short-lived. Not that real intercourse had brought him eternal bliss, he mused with a frown.

Damn!Talk about short-lived wanking; bloody teaching still bloody pissed him off.
The good thing about today was that it was Friday. He could -- and most certainly would -- drown his miserable existence in something with antiseptic qualities. He still had a couple of bottles of Ogdens if he remembered correctly.

With a sigh he got up and rummaged through his supply.

Bugger! Albus, Minerva and him had cleared the last three bottles on Boxing Day. Thinking about it, he remembered the hang-over.


His frustation level was rising significantly again. He would have to socialize in his own special way again tonight by going to Hogsmeade, sitting down in a dark secluded corner of ‘The Three Broomsticks’ and drink himself into oblivion.
He checked his robes for evidence of his earlier actions, cleaned a few tell-tale stains
with a spell. Decency also made him wash his hands before setting off.

* * * * *

Hermione stood in the door of ‘The Three Broomsticks’. The place was packed with wizards. It was Friday evening. She had not thought about that. For a moment she considered leaving again but Madame Rosmerta saw her, waved merrily and beckoned her to come in. Hermione scanned for a free spot. In the far left corner a table seemed to be unoccupied. It was very dark over there and looked like the perfect place to dwell in memories. Or to mope for a while.

Only when she sat down, she realized that a person clad in black half lay on the table. His head was resting on his outstretched arm, dark hair made it impossible to see his face. He almost perfectly blended with the darkness. A bottle of fire whiskey stood next to the wall on the table. It was half empty. And today nothing and no one would convince her that it was half full.

Unsure she shifted. There was something familiar about this person but Hermione
decided it might be best to leave this drunk man alone. She made to rise.

“Your presence does not bother me.” a voice slurred in a all to familiar drawl.

Hermione froze.

“Professor Snape?” she asked tentatively.

“Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger.” he responded dryly, lifting his head
slowly to watch her more closely.

“You don’t look too cheerful, Miss Granger. Is it life in general that bothers you, or is it my delightful presence?” he asked speaking a little slower than usual.

Hermione did not answer.

Was that really Snape? He was nowhere near scary or intimidating. Despite his state he
still had his sharp wit. A tingle crept through her insides. She remembered how she had wished for a man. And here he was. The man she dreamt about. What now?

Careful what you wish for, my girl. It may come true, you know!?

He looked at her. He still could not quite believe it. The second woman on his list was
sitting at his table. If he wasn’t that drunk already, he’d ask her to accompany her to one of the upstairs rooms to shag her until she or he were unconscious. Whichever came first. He sniggered inwardly. He was too drunk to perform tolerably tonight. And were he sober, he would rather bite off his tongue than ask. With this realization he sniggered even more.

She glared and he new that this snigger had been a bit too loud.

They were interrupted by the unsettling cheerfulness of Madame Rosmerta. She asked how Hermione was doing. After a bit of small talk, she went off to get the butterbeer Hermione had ordered.

Snape had listened with half an ear to the conversation between the two women.
He was able to extract the vital pieces of information and used the rest of his attention to compare the now-an-then of the Gryffindor know-it-all. Physically she had not changed much, however there was a difference at how she carried herself. She was not as sure of herself as she used to be. Probably life had taught her some lessons that could not be taken from books the last year. At least that was his impression of her now. She seemed a bit subdued. He felt a bit sorry for her. He had overheard her defending him sometime early in her seventh year. It had been difficult not to stride out of the corner and to intimidate her at first, to prove her wrong about how misunderstood he was. But then something had stirred within him. After that he had studied her more closely. Had evaluated her actions without wanting to. And later, after her graduation, she had found her way into his fantasies. She was not off limits anymore since she was no longer a student of Hogwarts. And she posed no threat as she was not
available. It had all been very convenient -- until now. Great Merlin, if only all his fantasies were to come true like that…Amber Weird, his shallow jerk-off
material. Hermione Granger, the thrilling, smart but dangerous temptation. And last but not least Professor Sinistra, the kinky hush-hush crush.

He had to admit to himself that he was a man of depth. A lopsided, dirty grin
no one would have expected flitted over his face.

Hermione was startled. She thought she had just seen a brief flicker of something that
insinuated her formerly feared Potion Master had just had a very dirty thought.

She measured him as closely as she could in the semi-darkness. His hair was raven black and greasy. In the past few months, she had amended that fact. In her dreams his hair was shiny and silky.

Alas! The small setbacks of reality.

She went on scrutinizing his face.

The thick slightly arched brows that spoke of will power.

The dark eyes, so blank and piercing, she wondered if they ever opened up to offer an
insight into his soul.

The very long, hooked nose.


What did they say about men with long noses again?!

There was an excited tingle in her groin.

And there was the mouth that loved to snarl and sneer. What else could it capable of?

“Miss Granger!” his voice interrupted with wicked mocking, “you are not checking me
out, are you?”

Hermione felt herself blush.

Snape gave her a knowing grin. He grabbed the bottle of fire whiskey and poured himself a
drink with a slightly shaking hand.

Rosmerta was approaching with Hermione’s butterbeer.

“Here you are my dear!” she smiled. “It is hot in here, isn’t it?” she said, completely misreading the redness in Hermione’s face. Hermione was about to nod. Snape was quicker.

“Very hot indeed, Rosmerta,” he said with a smirk.

Years of spending time with Ron and Harry made Hermione react without her mind being
able to interrupt. She kicked Snape’s shin. His mouth twitched briefly in pain but he showed no other reaction. Hermione, however felt satisfaction and embarrassment at the same time. She had kicked her former teacher…

…because he had deserved it.

When Rosmerta was gone, Snape raised his glass and an eyebrow, waiting for her reaction. Hermione toasted him back, a bit uneasy about the whole situation.

“Don’t worry Miss Granger. I did deserve it,” he said smoothly.

He had read her thoughts again.

A man who is reading your thoughts could be able to fulfil your dreams.

Snape drained the glass in one pull. The new supply of alcohol immediately took its
effect by spreading a pleasant dizziness in his head and a warm feeling in his stomach.

“Tell me, Miss Granger, how much butterbeer will you need to imbibe to loose that
annoying tongue-tiedness you are currently displaying?”

Hermione choked on her sip of butterbeer, blushing furiously yet again. Snape smiled
broadly, showing his somewhat crooked teeth. He refilled the glass and drained it yet again.

Come on, old dog. You got it in you.

“Miss Granger, please don’t act the shocked Victorian maiden. Your thoughts were written all over your face…And before you interrupt me: Yes, I am drunk. And yes, I would never say those things when I am sober.” he smiled again, a quick mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Hermione was about to answer indignantly but she held back. No! She would not do him that favour. She would not react like a Victorian maiden. Two could play that game. And he was the one with the Victorian clothes and the Victorian attitude
-- when he was not drunk.

“Well Professor, for a second it appeared that you entertained some dirty thoughts as well.” she retorted as coolly as she could.

“Thou hast hit it. Come sit on me then.” he replied, not fully able to comprehend why he
had said that. It had slipped out.

A sly smile played on her lips as she accepted the challenge.

“Asses are made to bear, and so are you.”

Despite his drunken state, he answered right away.

“Women are made to bear, and so are you.”

“No such jade as you, if me you mean.”

“Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee, for knowing thee but to be young and light.”

“Too light for such a swain as you to catch, and yet as heavy as my weight should be.”

Snape measured her closely. The atmosphere between them had changed. It was playful and somewhat sensual. This little intermezzo had proved that she was in his league. And he was amazed that his brain was able to process such assessments in the haze of his drunkenness.

Thrilling, smart temptation indeed.

The verbal battle with her former teacher had been fun. He did have a sense of humour. He
knew Shakespeare by heart. He seemed to be able to read her thoughts. He had a long nose. In short: Her female hormones were on high alert. If he stimulated her body the way he could stimulate her mind, the sex would be from out of this world.

Right! She was thinking about shaggine gre greasy git.

Correction: She used to fantasize for many months but now she was seriously
considering it. Oh-oh, what kind of mess was she getting herself into?

Her hands were trembling.

“Professor Snape, would you pour me a bit of that fire whiskey?” she asked gingerly.

He thought for a second.

“Anything to make you feel good, Miss Granger.”

She smiled shyly at that. He figured that he liked what he saw.

Hermione took the glass and drank. Since she had never tried fire whiskey before the
result was predictable. She choked and coughed. Snape grinned and patted her
back.

“Now now, Miss Granger.”

“Urgh.” she said after the first horrid taste had subsided, she felt a burning heat in her stomach.

“You need the right technique and some practice and you’ll be able to drink and enjoy,” he suggested fully aware of the double entendre. To his delight she tagged
along.

“Teach me then.”

“I’d be happy to do so.”

He poured a mouthful of whiskey and drank.

“You know, I only stopped by to drink a butterbeer and to remember the good old times.” she started.

He suppressed a snort. This girl was not even twenty yet and talked about ‘good
old times’. What was going on in her life that made her feel like that?

“Problems at work?” he inquired and poured another glass which Hermione took and drained.

She surpressed a shudder.

“Problems yes. But not a work. It’s m…m…more of an emotio…emotion…emotional thing.” She realized that the second glass was beginning to affect her speech.

“Boyfriend trouble?” he asked in what was such a non-Snape way that she was startled.

She nodded and without further invitation on his part she blurted out.

“He’s s…s…s…such an idiot. Left me for s…s…s…some blonde bimbo. Just because I…I…I…did not let him cop a feel after s…s…s…six weeks. I…I…I…don’t need a boy,
I need a maaaan.“

Suddenly she realized that she had been babbling.

“S…s…s…sorry brofesser. Didn mean to bother you with my miser…misera…miserable, non-eggshishtent love life.”

You’re not the only one with a miserable non-existent love life, he thought, poured
himself another glass and emptied it.

“One more, please brofesser S…s…snape.” she begged.

“Call me Severus.” he offered, doubting that the pronunciation of his given name would be any easier for her now.

“Call me, Herm…Herm..Hermione. And pour me one more, pl... pl... please.”

Against his better judgement, he heeded her wish.

She drained it heroically in one go and bit her lip.

“N..n..not
bad that shtuff. Brofe…Sev…Sev…Severus, I don thinck I’ll be able to walk
a…a…a…anymore.” she admitted.

He chuckled.

“The bottle is empty anyway. We could ask Rosmerta for a room.”


She giggled.

“One r…r…room? Double bed?”

“Hermione, I assure you that I would never,... my reasons are entirely noble. You’ll need someone to tend your heartache,” he paused, thought and corrected himself “headache tomorrow. And I am the Potions Master. You’re in good hands.”

She giggled even more.

“Your head…head…heada…headache will be worse than mine,” she slurred.

He sniggered.

“Posssible but then you can tend to my headache.”

They got up in a fit of chuckles and giggles.

Madame Rosmerta frowned when they asked for a room but assumed that both were much too drunk to get it on … and regret it afterwards. And even if they did get get their rocks off, they were both adults after all.

Somehow they managed to make it upstairs supporting each other. They staggered along
the doors and found the room. Snape fumbled with the key, trying to decide which of the three keyholes he was seeing was the right one.

Metal hit wood.

“Ooops!” he exclaimed “Wrong hole.”

Hermione erupted in even more giggles.

“Not a clue to your b... b... boudoir skills, no?” she managed to say.

Snape laughed.

“I am not only a Potions Master, my lady.”

In your dreams, an obnoxious little voice piped in his head. He ignored it.

They stumbled into the room and feel asleep almost instantly when their heads hit
the mattress.

* * *

There was a familiar pounding in his head. And unfamiliar hair in his face. Something warm and heavy was lying on his chest. He groaned. His throat was dry, he was
thirsty. The vibration of his groaning caused the thing on his chest to stir. And to emit a moan.

Memories flooded back. He shifted.

“Miss Gra... Hermione, are you ok?”

“Ouch, don’t move. My head…!” she complained.

Holy shit, her head felt like there was some marching band playing in there. She squeezher her eyes, which caused even more pain. There was an uneasiness in her stomach.
She asked the deities to let her die. He moved and the pain got almost unbearable.

He pulled away from her as slowly and gently as he could, hoping that Rosmerta had brought the usual remedy to clear his head. A quick glance to the table told him she had.

The heavy curtains were pulled aside but the light that shone in was soft and bearable. Unsteadily he got up and walked to the table. Merlin bless her. Two glasses of a potent potion to clear the hangover symptoms. And two bowls of magically heated chicken vegetable soup to restore the loss of electrolytes. He drank the potion, took the second glass and walked back to the bed.

“Hermione, here drink this,” he said in a fatherly tone.

“Cant,” she replied feebly.

He felt a pang of guilt, after all he had not stopped her yesterday.

“You should. It’ll help.”

“Lea me lone. I wanna die,” she mumbled.

He put the glass on the nightstand, grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around
slowly.


She winced. Her head hurt. She felt like vomiting. Her neck was aching
from the awkward position she had slept in. She wanted to be left alone.

“Miss Granger,” he hissed in his strictest, most menacing Snape voice, “You will drink this potion or I will force-feed it to. And I will not be gentle.”

She tensed and opened her eyes. He took the glass and handed it to her. With a satisfied smirk, he watched her drink.

The potion was cool and very bitter. She fought the urge to spit it out after taking the first sip. It took her a minute to empty the glass. She closed her eyes, checking for signs of needing to vomit. Nothing.

Snape took the glass from her hand.

“You’ll feel better in a few minutes times. Trust me,” he said reassuringly.

Was she imagining it or was there a trace of concern in his voice? Dimly she remembered the evening. The ambiguous words. The flirting. The air of something mutual
they seemed to share. They had both enjoyed it. She wondered if he had to be drunk in order to get likeable. Or would he be willing to let down his guard for her? Would he take her here and now? Bonking on a hangover seemed like a bad idea. And then she realized that her headache had vanished. She opened her eyes. He was leaning against the table, quietly eating. She noticed the enticing wafts of the soup just now.

“Better?” he asked warmly.

She nodded and winced, putting her hand to her neck.

He put down the spoon and watched her intently.

“This was not the best position to sleep, I gather.” he said.

She wanted to shake her head.

She wanted to tell him it had been pretty good.

She wanted to tell him that she wanted him to take her virginity.

“Would you hand me the bowl of soup, I’m starving!” That was all she managed to say.

With the air of his old strictness he asked, “What’s the magic word?”

She was in no mood to play games, so she rolled her eyes and groaned, “Severus!”

They stared at each other for several moments to let the implication sink in. Neither of them was foolish enough to ruin the moment with a witty remark.

Snape turned for the second bowl and handed it to her. When he finished his soup, he
watched her eating. The sudden wish to be the spoon she licked or to be the food that warmed her from inside took him by surprise.

Now now, Severus. Such abstract thoughts so early in the morning?

“Let me check on your neck as soon as you finished the soup. I hate the thought to have caused you physical pain like that.” he said in a matter of fact tone.

Hermione stopped eating. Was he…? Had he just..? He wanted to check on her neck? Too bad she had not been lying awkwardly enough for her whole body to hurt.

Hermione! Girl! Get a bloody grip on your bloody hormones, damnit!

She ate the rest of the soup quickly. While she ate, she observed him carefully. He was still leaning against the table. His arms were folded in front of him. He held his gaze upon her.

His frock coat was open, the top buttons of his white shirt were also open. His pale throat was showing. It was a sexy sight. To hell with Brat Pitt, Tom Cruise and Antonio Banderas, he was every inch a sight for sore eyes. The long hooked nose, the greasy hair, the stubble, the crooked teeth, all in all his somewhat dishevelled appearance only added to the casual coolness that Hermione adored.

She put the bowl aside. He moved from the table and sat down behind her.

Carefully he touched her neck with his fingers to locate the sore spots. After the first gentle touches a soft moan had slipped from her mouth, which had a bit of an impact on his groin.

Had it been a good idea to suggest a massage? She was frustrated and he was horny. A very dangerous combination. Last night the alcohol served as an excuse, but today they were both sober. He had no wish to inflict himself upon her under the current circumstances.

No, he would not listen to her soft whimpers as he eased the knots in her muscles.

No, he would not take advantage of the willing girl.

He did his best to ignore the softness of her skin, the overwhelming urge to let his fingers slip deeper and to caress her neck with his mouth. He mustered all his willpower to keep his thoughts, body and actions in check.

Hermione was going through her own little hell. His hands were good. Should she yield to the temptation of slumping back against him? Her rational mind told her that it would make her look like a silly school girl. But if he knew how to use his hands like this all over her body it might be worth it.

She tried to think of a smooth move to indicate that she enjoyed the contact and wanted more. She could not think of one. The books she had read offered no advice on how-to-seduce-a-man-into-seducing-you for her current situation. And she felt not bold enough to try something and risk a major embarrassment.

The moment came and went.

Snape stopped.

“Better now?” he asked politely.

“Yes, thank you!” Hermione answered, wondering whether both of them had not been born 150 years too late.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled, happy he’d been able to
contain himself, sad because it had been a pleasure to touch her like that.

Merlin’s beard why wasn’t there a book to go by?

Awkward silence followed. Finally, she shifted, got up from the bed.

“Well, uhm, thank you for last night...and for letting me sleep here. And for” she blushed, “tending my headache.”

A million answers and reactions swished through Snape’s head. Each more thrilling and
corny than the previous, so he just nodded.

Hesitantly she gathered her coat and stood unsure.

“I owe you money for the whiskey and the room and ...” she grabbed for the pocket.

He smiled weakly. “No, Hermione. It was my pleasure…”

I owe you for keeping a miserable Potions Master company, he thought.

She wanted to tell him that she would like to see him again but it seemed wholly inappropriate. She hesitated, saw him sitting on the bed. His face spoke volumes. He asked not to make it anymore difficult.

“Maybe we’ll meet again soon.” she said.

“In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” he smiled.

“In thunder, lightning, or in rain,” she smiled back, turned and left.

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Authors notes:

This was rather long. I apologize for this inconvenience.


“Who was Paul anyway” is taken from a well-known German ad: Und wer ist eigentlich Paul?

Yes, you recognized it: There is a passage taken from good old Shakespeare’s 'Taming of the Shrew'. It seemed to fit, so I put it in, just to add some intellectual depth.

The smart ones among you have probably figured out that Mac Beth was invited to join the party as well.

I cannot really promise I can keep the pace you got here. The rough draft for chapter two exists only in my head. It will probably be more down to earth. I already wrote several pages on chapter three which will contain heavy fun and light pensiveness.