Arithmantic Dating Agency

Chapter 7

As Hermione didn’t actually work for a living – Ginny could look at the stock market prices and jump up and down chanting ‘come on you bastard, three more points’ as well as her – she decided to arrive for the date with Severus early.

Actually, she owled Minerva to arrange a meeting in the afternoon, ostensibly to talk to her about her progress with Filch, but really to get the inside track on what was going on with Severus. The stock market may have closed up 83 points, but, in the cold light of day, that was a bloody stupid reason to sleep with someone. Not that she had any intention of not sleeping with him - she had packed her toothbrush – it wasn’t so much strategy she wanted to discuss as tactics. The practicalities of getting him into bed, and keeping him there once she had succeeded.

Severus was older than her, and came from a pureblood background, which suggested that he might be restrained, but then he had spent some time as a Deatheater, and goodness only knows what they had been up to. She just wanted a hint as to whether she would be slipping into bed with someone who might be a bit shy and uncertain or someone who was going to perform acrobatics – so she could do a couple of warm up exercises first, no point straining a muscle.

Minerva was frank enough about Severus: “Nothing to worry about dear, I’ve told him not to attempt anything too complicated the first time, and to the best of my knowledge he isn’t a virgin.”

She was more reticent about Filch – yes, things were going well enough thank you, no, she wasn’t prepared to say whether they had actually done the deed. Hermione was relieved to hear it; the last thing anyone wanted to hear about was Filch in the context of actual sex, particularly when they were about to embark on the seas of amour themselves. It could put you right off.

She’d sent Hermione on her way with a recommendation to go the back way. “I know Albus is hanging around the Hall, hoping to bump into you. Really, the man is very aggravating, as if you want to be bothered by arrangements for the Hogwarts Foundation Ball at a time like this. I did warn him that your likely response would be to snap at him, and to wait until you were leaving at the very lest, but would he listen?”

Hermione made it to the dungeons without bumping in to the Headmaster, which was fortunate. She didn’t know what the punishment was for hexing Albus on the grounds if being an irritating sod, but she didn’t want to find out the hard way. Still, no jury in the land would convict her once they heard the full story.

She had the novel experience of feeling shy when she went to knock on Severus’s door. Even the hardiest of souls would feel a little daunted by the fact that almost the entire castle knew that she was here and why she was here. If Minerva and Dumbledore knew, the rest of the castle couldn’t be far behind, and those that were missed out by that pair of busybodies would be notified by the house elves.

Severus seemed a little distracted and Hermione was disappointed to receive only a peck on the cheek by way of welcome. When she accepted his invitation into the sitting room, she could see why. A table was set up to one side of the room, covered in snowy linen, enough cutlery for eight people, let alone two, not to mention the flowers and candles.

“Do you like it?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s wonderful,” she said warmly. “I can come back later if you haven’t finished.”

“No,” he said, a little sharply. “No, please, I’d like you to stay. I’ve nearly finished anyway.” He took out his wand and began casting a series of privacy charms; he too thought that people were taking too strong an interest in their soon-to-be-private lives.

He bustled around making her a cup of tea, and then gingerly took a seat next to her on the sofa.

Silence.

A very awkward silence; and then a halting confession from Severus: “I’m sorry, I meant to be better company. There was all sorts of things I wanted to talk to you about this morning, but now they’ve all gone, and all I can think about is this stupid dream I had.”

“What was the dream about?”

“It was more of a nightmare really,” he replied. “We were – we were –“ he flailed around trying to find the right word.

“Shagging?” put in Hermione.

“Making love,” he said a little reproachfully.

“Was it good?” she asked hopefully.

“Very. Are you going to let me finish?”

“Sorry.” Hermione folded her hands in her lap and gave a good impression of a dutiful student listening to a lecture.

“When things had reached a – mutually – satisfying conclusion, I looked up to see Minerva and Pomona watching and assessing my performance.”

Hermione tried not to laugh, he seemed so disturbed by the dream, but she couldn’t help herself. “Did they hold up cards with marks on? 5.5 for technical merit and 5.9 for artistic impression.”

“I rather think I can do better than 5 out of 10,” he began indignantly.

Hermione managed to stop laughing long enough to explain that she had been thinking of ice-skating contests, which were marked out of 6, and had in no way been insulting his likely prowess.

“I should think so,” he subsided. “It was bad enough that Minerva seemed to think it only qualified as Exceeds expectations!”

“What did Pomona think?” asked Hermione breathless with laughter.

“Outstanding, naturally,” he replied smugly, which started Hermione laughing again. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

He waited until her mirth had died down to a few choked giggles, then offered, “They had popcorn.”

“Well you would, wouldn’t you?” Hermione said reasonably. “I think we should just be grateful they didn’t start throwing it at us.”

Now that he had confessed what was worrying him, he felt a lot better. In the cold light of day it did seem funny after all. He felt Hermione move closer to him, and he put his arm round her.

And then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to start kissing her, and there was no good reason to stop. Gradually they slid off the sofa onto the floor, and, yes, he was clumsy, her bra almost defeated him, but he struggled on, and - oh – her breasts were soft and inviting, apart from the nipples which peaked under his tongue.

And her hands were everywhere: tangling in the hair in the back of his neck; pulling his shirt open and burrowing round to trace the muscles in his back; and then reaching between them to undo his trousers; and pushing them from his hips; and then they were grasping at his buttocks, and urging him closer, and he was sinking into her, and moving in her, and she was crying out beneath him, and he came to an overwhelming, shudderstopstop.

When he could breathe again, he realised that he was still lodged in her, and had collapsed over her in an untidy heap, with his trousers still bunched round his knees.

“A hundred points to Slytherin, Professor Snape,” she said, refusing to let him move off her. “Definitely an Outstanding.”

“Two hundred points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” he replied.

“You did all the work.”

“I did, didn’t I? Two hundred points to Slytherin it is, then,” he smirked. He had never before appreciated how wonderful it was to make someone laugh, but when she started giggling into his shoulder, he felt a wave of happiness sweep through him that he had never felt before.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, and stared at the ceiling.

“It isn’t what I expected,” he said softly.

“How so?” She looked up from where her head had been resting on his chest.

“I wanted to take my time, be, I don’t know, more thorough, pay more attention to detail.”

“Severus, let’s go to bed.”

He looked at her, a little irritated, then realised from the glint in her eye that her comment wasn’t quite the non sequitor he had thought, and it appeared he had recovered faster than he had thought possible.

Oh, yes. Seconds. Thirds even.

He kicked free of his shoes and socks, pushed off his trousers, and allowed her to help him to his feet. He followed her to the bedroom, still holding her hand.

He was sure they’d get round to dinner eventually.

When they reached the bed Severus was apprehensive again. He had achieved what he had achieved purely on instinct, but now he was supposed to be calling on skills, experience, technique even, to bring Hermione to the highest pitch of ecstasy over and over again.

He hadn’t got the faintest idea where to start.

He’d had thoughts: little flashes of fantasy that had come to him at odd moments during the week. Not a fully formed, fully choreographed – even orchestrated – seduction, but an image of him kissing her neck, nuzzling between her breasts, kissing the crook of her elbow or tracing the curve of her hip with his fingers: little fragments that would go to make up the whole; but where to start?

Hermione, marvellously, wonderfully, took the lead, and freed him from that moment of paralysis.

She pulled back the covers and then sat on the bed. She took his hand, kissed the palm, then rubbed her cheek against it. He sketched out the line of her neck and then along her arm to take her hand. Somehow, without clumsiness this time, he followed her down onto the bed as she laid back.

They were stretched out together, his body half-covering hers: a leg nestling between her thighs, but with no weight behind it; an arm resting on her gently rounded belly; and then the hand reaching up to cup her breast.

They rested like that for a heartbeat, before he moved to kiss her. Innocent, closed-mouth kisses, that made her smile against his lips, and made him smile in his turn. He felt ridiculously happy that he could do something as simple as make someone else smile.

And then she was rolling him over, and her hair was falling on either side of his face, like curtains, cutting them off from the rest of the world, and she was saying in sultry tones – and who would have thought someone as prosaic as Hermione would be sultry, and yet she was, she was – “I think it’s my turn don’t you?”

He offered no resistance, had no wish to resist, not when she was dropping soft kisses on his throat. Her hair was tickling his face, and he huffed it out of the way. She smiled at him as she flicked it to one side and he felt his heart, an organ he had previously denied owning, lurch.

He put out a hand, and ran a finger down her cheek. She turned her head slightly to suck it into her mouth, and he hissed at the image that brought to mind. Hermione’s smile broadened into a very promising grin – she could tell what he had been thinking.

Would she?

It seemed she would, but only after a leisurely detour. He had never before appreciated just how sensitive his nipples were until Hermione lipped at them, and that long tail of her hair was following her down and it was almost but not quite ticklish, and then her tongue was exploring his navel with a promise of pleasures to come. He was fleetingly grateful that he had taken so much time in the bath earlier but then her mouth drifted lower and all he was thinking of was when she would…..

Ah.

She kissed his tip. Paused long enough to draw out the moment, and then, achingly slowly, took him into her mouth. Again a pause, to allow the exquisite relief at finally being in that hot, welcoming mouth to fade, and the anticipation of movement to build. When she did move, it was just slightly slower than he would have liked, and he hovered on the edge of pleasure and irritation. It was so good, but it could be so much better. He looked down at her, on the verge of instructing her to ‘move, damn it!’ when he saw her expression – she was teasing him.

Two can play at that game.

When she saw his evil smile she laughed, which did very interesting things to his cock; he very nearly changed his mind about turning the tables on her, but only very nearly.

He urged her up by pulling at her hands, and buried his long nose in her hair. It was soft and woolly, and smelled faintly of some perfume. She giggled, a little, as his hot breath tickled her ear, but then his teeth began nipping at her lobe, and soon she was making little noises of appreciation in the back of her throat.

From ear to neck, from neck to shoulder and then down the curve of the breast to a nipple – a pause, a breath – and then a swirl of the tongue, before, finally, suckling, nuzzling and lipping at her nipple; his hand feeling the curve and weight of her other breast, warm and soft.

And then he was kissing her again, and his hand was stroking slowly down her body and then between her legs, moving in subtle patterns along her thighs and almost but not quite stroking her where she obviously craved his touch. She shifted restlessly beneath him, then broke off the kiss to say, “Severus, stop playing silly buggers, there’s a good boy.”

He gave a short gasp of laughter, and then did what she wanted. The sight of Hermione, flushed, head thrown back and fighting for breath was entrancing, and one he wanted to savour; but she hooked a leg round his and pulled him towards her.

His cock nudged hopefully between her legs, and then he was easing into her, and he was lost in a whirlwind of sensation, and he was clinging on until he was dimly aware of her arching beneath him and then he could finally let go.

It felt like a long time before he could summon the strength to move, and he flopped gracelessly to one side of her without moving too far away.

They lay side by side, looking at the ceiling; Hermione took his hand and interlaced their fingers.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “bearing in mind that it is generally accepted that the first shag is supposed to be faintly disappointing, and the second shag just about ok, I wonder what the third one will be like?”

He barely had the strength to lift his head, but he looked at her and said, “Give me thirty minutes, and we can find out.”

He wasn’t offended at all by her laughter, because she tucked herself in the crook of his arm and placed an arm over him possessively.

“All right, maybe forty minutes,” he said, as he felt himself drifting asleep.


Severus didn’t know how long he slept, but soon after he awoke he became aware that there were other appetites that needed to be satisfied. He was absolutely starving. He was slightly worried about how to tell Hermione this – she was still sleeping and making faint snuffling sounds that could be called snoring if they were made by someone less beautiful – it was hardly the stuff of romance.

And yet, there was the dinner he had prepared for in such loving detail.

He carefully freed himself from Hermione’s possessive arm, and slipped into his dressing gown, and headed back into the sitting room. A quick glance at the mantel clock showed that it was 8pm, only half an hour later than he had originally planned for dinner.

He felt mildly self-conscious about summoning Dobby when he was still in his dressing-gown; it would be all over the castle within half an hour. And yet, he felt slightly smug, and slightly guilty about feeling smug, at the thought that everyone would soon know that he and Hermione had been – he searched for a suitable phrase and finally settled on – been intimate. And so early in the evening as well.

It hadn’t been quite what he had envisaged. He had expected a romantic dinner, sparkling conversation, good food, a decent wine, a move to the sofa and then shagging like nifflers; instead of which, they had gone straight to the last item on the agenda. Not that he was complaining, not at all.

Ten minutes, three over-excitable house-elves, and a flurry of activity later and dinner was ready. Nothing too elaborate and certainly nothing too heavy; the idea wasn’t to make your partner fall asleep after the meal. He looked up from lighting the candles – none of this silly business with matches that muggles had to put up with, just a quick spell – and there she was, leaning against the doorjamb, wrapped in a sheet.

And he had thought he was hungry, he thought wryly to himself.

He reminded himself – firmly – that he was a gentleman, and drew out a chair for her to sit on.

“That’s a very fetching outfit,” he said. He thought she looked wonderful, all pink and flushed and faintly rumpled. She looked like she had just climbed out of bed, and she looked like she was ready to head back there at a moments notice.

“Why thank you,” she mock-simpered in her best Lavender Brown manner. “All the girls are wearing it this season.”

He took the seat opposite her and started the prosaic business of serving the food and pouring the wine.

There was no awkwardness between them; they were as comfortable together as an old married couple, but without the lingering resentments built up over twenty years. She asked about how his classes had been, and he found himself recounting the story of young Mr Beattie and his amazing exploding cauldron.

Not only did she find it amusing but sharing it with her allowed him to find a measure of enjoyment in what had, at the time, been nothing short of a nightmare. If this continued on a regular basis, he could see himself developing a sense of humour, perhaps mellowing and becoming less irritable; the prospect didn’t annoy him as much as it might once have done. He would be a fool to scoff at any chance to be happy; he’d been the child standing outside the toy shop with their nose pressed against the window for far too long.

Then he asked about her meeting with Minerva earlier. He half-expected Hermione to confirm that he had made some mistake in filling in the form, and that Filch wasn’t really Minerva’s soulmate, although he had tried to be as accurate as possible.

“So, why do you think they are suited to each other,” he asked, puzzled.

An evil expression crossed her face. “Well, if you think about it, Filch has a great deal of experience with cats.”

He was shocked by the implication; he was even more shocked that Hermione was the one making it, and about her favourite professor too. Amused, but shocked. When he pointed this out to her, she just smiled broadly and said that McGonagall was hardly her favourite professor any more.

The implication passed him by at first, and then he ducked his head shyly. He wasn’t used to compliments, had no armour against them, and didn’t know what to say. He was relieved when she turned the conversation back to Minerva and Filch. “I gather that things are going well, although she was terribly coy about how well. It’s not surprising. If he was honest in his answers, they have a surprising amount in common: similar tastes in books, music, and art, and both are very strong believers in the value of discipline.” – another evil smile – “Just because he’s a squib, doesn’t mean he’s stupid; what he wants is someone who will appreciate that. All he needed was a chance.”

“And what does Minerva get out of it?” he enquired, interested in spite of himself.

“I think she’s beginning to feel old, that life has passed her by; what she wants is someone who will tell her that she’s still attractive, still vibrant, despite her age.”

Now he thought about it, Minerva had been complaining about aches and pains a lot more recently; she did seem to be feeling old. He could sympathise with that. “And you think that going out with a younger partner will help her feel younger?”

“You tell me,” she said, almost purring.

He shot her an amused look. “I think it may make her feel very tired, if she’s norefureful.”

“And what’s the best thing when you’re feeling tired?” she asked, twirling her fork.

“Lot’s of rest?” he offered hopefully; he liked the way her mind was working.

“I think it’s way past your bedtime then.”

He rather thought she was right about that; particularly when she stood up, made some airy comment about needing the sheet back in that case, and let it fall to the ground. Hermione was enchantingly direct about these sorts of things, he reflected, as he padded into the bedroom behind her.

And she was right; the third time was the best of all.