For the Potions Master\'s Amusement

For the Potions Master’s Amusement

Chapter 4: Coming Again


Hermione stood in the chilly, dark hallway outside Professor Snape’s office, her fight or flight instincts trilling through her body like a Muggle house alarm. Three weeks it had been since she had received her professor’s particular attentions—three weeks in which he had shown her no more notice than he had at any other time since she had been his student. By not so much as a glance or a word had he betrayed to her that he even recalled using the fingers of both hands to bring to her an orgasm so strong that she very nearly lost consciousness—certainly she had enjoyed a bit of a break with reality in the wake of the shuddering pleasure which had wracked her body almost to the point of pain.

She had tried not to return to him, not to think about it, not to frig herself night after night, desperate to go back to that place of erotic bliss to which he had sent her—but to no avail. Not all of her imaginings, nor her own two hands, nor the naughty toys she had ordered discreetly delivered in plain brown papers—her favourite of which was the wonder called Number Fourteen—had replaced the emotional impact of his merciless hand upon her bare arse, followed by his ingenious fingers upon her clitoris.

She clenched her fists at her sides and leant her head against the office door, gritting her teeth against the adrenaline rush. She could go back to her room—there would be no objection if she did, after all, with the glaring exception of her aching quim—and get on with her usual Friday night after-dinner activities. Well, they were pretty much the same as on any other night, although she might read a bit for pleasure before locking her door and spreading her legs to fuck herself, her mind full of his intense, inexplicable concentration upon her and her alone …

The office door opened, and she stumbled inside, her heart in her throat. Damn it all, she wasn’t ready yet to see him—to speak to him—she hadn’t had time to compose herself, to prepare her speech! But as she gained her footing again, she saw that she was alone with the glass jar menagerie; the object of her obsession was nowhere to be seen.

Then who had opened the door?

Nervously, she spun around, looking into each corner of the room, but she did not see another person. Curious, wasn’t it?

She walked around his desk, inspecting the solid-appearing wall behind it. She reached out to trace a finger along the stone, feeling for the crevice of a doorjamb, and at her touch, the doorway glowed green and the door appeared.

Hermione jerked her hand away as if she had been burned and took a step back. She did not believe for a moment that a wizard as cautious and alert as Professor Snape went about leaving his office open for a casual intruder to gain entrance, so had he made special accommodation for her? The thought warmed her and brought a tiny curve to her lips.

Scarcely had she had time to consider the ramifications of her thought before the secret doorway swung open, and the welcoming glow of a roaring fire, supplemented by the gas lamp hanging from the ceiling, bathed her in golden light. Off to the left side she saw him sitting at the table which before had been covered with books and parchment; this time, it held a single book, an ink bottle and a wineglass. Bent over the book, his quill scratching, was her professor. It was well after dinner time, and he was attired in dark slacks and boots, as usual, but he wore a forest green jumper, which struck her as quite unusual—she had never seen him wear colour before. His hanging hair obscured her view of his face, but it did not prevent her from trying to see his expression. It wasn’t too late—she wasn’t inside the room, was she? She could still flee, if she wanted …

‘Either come in or go away,’ he said without looking up.

His voice held neither rancour nor censure, and she was emboldened to enter the room in which she had promised to do as she was told without question. The door snapped closed behind her, and she was unnerved to hear a sound like a key turning in a lock. She swallowed nervously and wrung her hands.

Professor Snape continued to write in the book, occasionally dipping his quill into the ink bottle, his hand moving steadily across the page. His hair looked clean—possibly still damp—and there was a relaxation in his bearing that was unfamiliar to her. Her eyes strayed to the glass wall, but it was utterly black beyond the glass, which reflected now the candlelight and the shadowy shapes of the objects in the room.

‘Well, Miss Granger,’ he said at length, placing his quill upon the tabletop, at a precise angle to the book.

Hermione started, jerking her eyes back to him, her heart tripping into double time.

‘You do not appear to have business in this room, and I am very much afraid I do not offer office hours at—’ he glanced at the ticking clock upon the mantelpiece ‘half-past eight on Friday evenings.’ He now looked at her, his gaze calm but implacable. ‘I will bid you good evening.’

‘But you said—’ she began breathlessly, her unacknowledged hope plunging into the roiling acid in her stomach. He was going to send her away!

Deliberately, his gaze travelled from the top her head to her feet before coming to rest upon her face. ‘As I said, you do not appear to have a reason even to be in this room. You may go back to wherever you came from and leave me in peace.’ He sneered at her then, something he had not done in some time, and she felt as if he had slapped her face. Why was he behaving this way? Did he not himself invite her to visit him again if she …

Her error dawned upon her then—had she not changed back into her school uniform after dinner for this very reason? Was her bum not chilled already in its uncovered state? How could she have been so stupid?

Praying that she was not too late to prevent her eviction, she yanked the hem of her skirt up to her waist, baring her naked cunt to him, just as he had instructed her to do, feeling her face flame with the degradation of it. She closed her eyes, hating herself for subjecting herself to this treatment—and her traitorous quim throbbed in need.

When next he spoke, he was standing right beside her, having moved across the room without making a sound to alert her to his presence. Her eyes flew open in some alarm.

‘Oh my,’ he said silkily, ‘did the Head Girl walk down from Gryffindor Tower to the dungeons without her knickers on, wearing only a skirt?’ He leant close to her, his lips beside her ear. ‘Or did you step out of your underpants in your teacher’s office, hoping he would touch your cunt, hmm?’

The sound of his voice beguiled her even as his words shamed and excited her. The ache of need pooled hot within her, and she was aware of a whimper passing her lips.

‘That was not a rhetorical question, Hermione,’ he said. ‘I require an answer.’

‘I didn’t wear them,’ she whispered. ‘I left my room without them.’

‘I see,’ he murmured, circling her like a predator, his glittering black eyes roving over her. ‘Tuck the skirt in the waistband to free your hands,’ he instructed, and Hermione shoved the hem down the front waistband so that it bunched at her waist but did not fall to hide her nakedness from his sight. ‘Now,’ he purred, standing directly behind her, looking down from his greater height, ‘use your fingers to part your labia—hold them spread open so I can see your clit.’

Her fingers trembled as she reached down to do his bidding, her clitoris wanting more contact as she brushed against it, parting her labia. He stayed behind her, his breathing just a touch unsteady, as if something about her humiliation excited him, and her own arousal increased at the very notion, a minute tremor affecting her legs, making it difficult to stand still.

He moved around now to face her, and he squatted gracefully before her, his nostrils flaring as he caught her scent. He studied her spread quim as if he had never seen one before—or if he found hers quite fascinating, an idea which fed the fire of need quaking through her.

‘And how many of your little classmates have you permitted to touch you since last you were here?’ he inquired evenly, his gaze still upon her nether parts.

‘N-none!’ she blurted, surprised.

‘No one has touched you here since I did?’ he said, placing the index finger of his right hand upon her clitoris.

‘Only me,’ she admitted, her mortification now complete, but she scarcely noticed—all she wanted was his touch; only that mattered.

‘Ah,’ he said, rising effortlessly. ‘I knew a little slut such as you, Hermione, could not go without climaxing at least once a day.’ He touched her chin with the finger which had been in her quim, and she smelt the pungent odour of her own arousal. He forced her chin up until her eyes met his, and before she could fathom his intention, he had slipped into her mind, rifling through her memories with apparent interest.

Hermione saw herself on her bed with Number Fourteen, writhing; in the bath, twisting her nipples before slipping her hands beneath the water to masturbate; sitting in a chair before her mirror, watching herself as she rubbed her clitoris.

‘Sometimes more than once a day,’ he murmured, disengaging.

‘You shouldn’t use Legilimency without asking!’ she gasped.

One coal black eyebrow arched. ‘You wish to dictate to me?’ he inquired dangerously. ‘Think carefully before you answer, Hermione.’

She bit her lip to keep from speaking, terrified that he would send her away, never to return. She had come here of her own free will—she knew the rules—in this room, if he wished to peruse her memories, it was his prerogative. She had agreed, had she not?

‘No, sir,’ she said, feeling the chill air of the room cooling the heat in her quim, held open and exposed. She felt so foolish, standing here so exposed and knowing that she would do anything he asked if only he would touch her again and make her feel as he had done before.

‘Then you are ready to take your punishment?’ he asked.

‘Y-yes,’ she responded, relief making her feel a little weak. ‘Please,’ she added, thinking he would like that.

He did not appear to have heard her, for he turned and walked to the table before speaking again. ‘Bend over the table edge,’ he instructed her, and she began to move in his direction, not daring to release the lips of her labia even though it made walking awkward in the extreme.

‘But am I not going to be over your knee?’ she asked plaintively, remembering how it had felt.

He waited until she reached him and had bent obediently over the table to answer her. ‘No,’ he said sternly, ‘you entered this room with your cunt covered, and you questioned me. I’m afraid that you have not earned such a friendly spanking as that.’

And in the dim reflection of the glass window, she saw him begin to remove his belt.

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A/N: I wasn't going to write again this weekend, because I was so disappointed in the review response for the last chapter - less than 10 reviews over three archives, can you believe it? But the story really wants to be told, so I'll just ask this: Please leave a review, even if it's only a sentence. I know you're reading, because I can see the number of hits and alerts the story has received, so please take the time to acknowledge me. I find it so very encouraging when you do. Thank you!