In the Dungeon Damp and Dark

“I, myself, share a love of sweet creams,” he continued, oddly conversational in his post-orgasmic state.

She turned her head allowing him to guide her steps while she studied his profile. “Perhaps we can find a mutually agreeable dessert – to share, of course.”

“Perhaps,” he cut his words off as he reached for the door to the Great Hall. With a surprisingly gentle hand, he guided her to precede him into the cacophonous room and wade through the heavy noise to the High Table. Dumbledore glanced down the length of the crowded table as the last two faculty members took the only two seats still available: Snape’s normal end of the table post and the dreaded place next to his. While half-listening to Madame Maxime and McGonagal’s discussion, he smirked knowingly to himself when he saw Snape gallantly hold the chair for the petite French professor. He was too far away to hear any of their conversation over the raucous laughter and general noise of the entire assembled student body. The French professor’s prim nod of acknowledgement and small smile kick-started Hogwarts’ Headmaster’s imagination.

“Mercí, Professor Snape.” She nodded to him, and graced him with a tiny prim and proper smile.

“You are most welcome, Madame,” he graciously replied in a low voice for only her to hear.

“Mademoiselle, monsieur.” She reached for her goblet as she corrected him. He narrowed his eyes slightly at her while he settled into his customary seat. He watched out of the corner of his eye when suddenly the professor next to him set down her utensils and turned her entire body to stare up the table, past Flitwick, Karkaroff and Sprout, at Dumbledore himself. Dumbledore dropped his pretense of listening to the ladies near him, and turned to meet her gaze fully, silently raising his goblet in a toast to her. She held his gaze for a long moment before she reached for her own golden goblet to return the gesture. Returning to her meal, she whispered to Snape, “Professor, by any chance, is your Headmaster skilled in Legilimency?”

“Yes, why do you ask?” growled Snape.

“Just a suspicion. No, no, that is not the word – intuition,” she corrected herself as Snape attempted to study her surreptitiously from the side.

She slipped her hand under the table and onto his thigh. Startled, he coughed to cover his tiny exhalation in surprise, glancing down at his own black wool pant leg to marvel at the crisp pink and white French manicure gracing the fingers this brazen woman now had splayed possessively across his own leg. The gleaming, pristine white tips of her blunted nails fairly glowed in contrast to the stark black of his chosen attired. As if doing absolutely nothing unusual, she continued daintily eating her meal with her left hand. Torturously, she strummed his leg with just the tips of her fingers, stroking his ego and stoking his desire to save room for dessert. His imagination could easily have carried him away, imagining those nails raking across more parts of his naked body, scratching then soothing with the smooth, highly polished side.

As if reading his mind, the woman picked up her fork and knife and laid them across the top edge of her plate even though she had not quite finished her portions. Instantly, the elves’ magic recognized the genteel indication of a finished meal and the plate disappeared from view. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin then stood, forcing both Karkaroff and Snape to stand in respect as well. Flitwick struggled to his feet, standing on his chair.

“Bonsoir, gentlemen. Good evening,” she said nodding to the professors to her left. As she pushed her chair back under the table, she glanced up coyly at Snape, gracing him with a quick wink.

“And, good evening to you as well,” Karkaroff saluted her as Snape stepped out of her way. He settled back down into the chair to make a pretense of finishing his meal. The hard wood of the dining chairs was not helping the situation the witch had left him in.

After eating all of his carefully prepared steak, Snape left the rest of his meal untouched. Excusing himself curtly, he made his normal exit in a flourish of robes, unaware of a certain twinkle in the eye of the Headmaster.

Descending once more into the dungeon damp and dark, the mere friction of his own clothing against his cock began to drive him forward with more purpose. He quickly reached the witch’s classroom and found the door slightly ajar. Rapping loudly, he announced his presence as he opened the door, calling out, “Mademoiselle, perhaps we could continue …”

The sight before him stunned the very words from his mouth. She was lying on a transfigured bed, her robes splayed around her, skirt hitched to her waist, and her fingers languidly moving against herself under a nearly sheer scrap of silk that was supposedly her knickers.

“I thought you might like dessert?” she queried with as much innocence as she could muster.

“Yes, indeed, I would,” hissed the Potions master.

“I hope you like pie?”