Hermione

Sorry this has taken so long. If it makes you feel better, I did post two new stories in the Original-Erotica section.

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Hermione turned her back on him, letting him get a long look at the dress, or the lack thereof, from that perspective. The fire from the braziers licked her skin. She felt the thick silence on his end, and knew he was appreciating the view. She felt a faint spark of hope inside. But the wrong word from him, and she would snuff that spark forever. She could tell that little had changed between them, and she didn’t think she could take more of this agonizing waiting and biding of time.

“Come to my rooms,” he said. His hands were light on her bare shoulders.

Hermione gathered her courage. “Prof—Severus?”

“Yes?” The word came softer than she expected.

She cleared her throat nervously. “Nothing seems to have changed.”

“Such as?” The voice carried a warning. Hermione remembered something from First Year, something about wanting to be careful of Snape—he could be very nasty.

“No ring. No date. And you’re still ordering me around. And there’s another matter.”

“Now maybe we’re coming to it.”

“You’re very unfair to Harry.”

His light touch traced her spine down to the hollow of her back. “One row at a time, if you please. And that’s not your real concern.”

Hermione couldn’t help turning her head to one side, even as his fingertip brushed lower and lower still until it came to the fabric of her gown, just above her buttocks. She felt a rush of wetness between her thighs and a swelling there. She closed her eyes and prayed he couldn’t tell. “No,” she managed softly. “I’m just not sure about you. Are you really good, or not? Could you ever be a little—nicer?”

He made an impatient sound. “We’ve been through this! I’m not nice, as you’ve pointed out. That’s why I joined the Dark Lord to begin with.”

“But you joined the Order. For her,” Hermione added. He stayed silent and removed his hand. “Maybe it was just for her. Maybe I’m just the consolation prize, something to soften your loneliness. But maybe I’d be nothing to you if she were still here.”

He still didn’t answer, but she heard his breathing pick up anxious pace.

The silence stretched, thick and taut. “You know,” Hermione said conversationally, “this has been too easy for you.”

“What has?” he said warily.

“This. Me. I wanted you in the beginning, so it was easy for you to set the pace and give as little as possible. But now I think I want more. I think I deserve a little more than this—sneaking around and doing whatever you want whenever you want it.”

This clearly was not the direction Snape had expected their meeting to go. He stammered a few phrases, but Hermione stepped forward, out of his reach. She slipped the gown off one shoulder, then slowly off the other. From the renewed silence behind her, she knew she had regained his full attention. The gown dropped to the floor. That left high heels and thigh-high stockings. Hermione peeked over her shoulder. There was no mistaking Snape’s gobsmacked look. He started to step forward, but she held up her wand. Snape reluctantly stayed put, though he looked highly interested as to what was coming next. Hermione’s heart pounded in her ears. She pulled off the shoes slowly, strap by strap, then unrolled the stockings. Then she did two slow pivot turns under his glittering, black gaze, so that her back was again to him. Oh, this would be delicious.

“Now,” she purred, or what she hoped was a purr—her heart was tripping so madly she could hardly keep the quaver out of her voice—“you let me know when you’re ready to give me a little more respect. Invisio!”

And she nipped out the door, completely invisible. She stole a quick peek at Snape’s face, even more astonished than previously, and nearly burst out laughing.

It was a good thing she had studied some of the books from Dumbledore’s office. He had once said he didn’t need an Invisibility Cloak to be invisible, and Hermione had found that it was true. Now, completely naked, she ran as quickly as she dared up the stone steps of the dungeon and to Gryffindor Tower. She half-hoped to hear Snape in close pursuit, but instead, to her leaden disappointment, she heard only his office door creak shut with a final slam of the bolt.

Late next morning, someone knocked softly and tentatively at Hermione’s door. She got out of bed, having slept only four hours. The Sleekeazy’s hair potion had worn off, and now her hair was sticking up at all angles. She was wearing her old flannel nightgown. She glanced in a mirror and turned away quickly. There was no getting around it—she looked awful. Hastily, she grabbed her pink bathrobe and opened the door.

Ginny stood there, her flaming hair flowing, her skin effortlessly clear, her clothes clean and pressed. Hermione wished desperately that she could freeze time and put on something else. Next to her, looking more cross than she had ever seen him before, stood Severus Snape.

“Erm,” Ginny rolled her eyes uncertainly in Snape’s direction, “we’ve come to go to breakfast with you.”