The Bookshop

Disclaimer: You\'d have to be a cretin to imagine that these characters were mine or that I was making any money from them. Disclaimers are a waste of time and have no effect in law. The original bits are mine, and are protected by UK law whether I assert copyright or not.


Professor Snape liked bookshops; there was something sensual in the smell of old leather, the sensation of soft skin under his fingers, and the promise of the unknown between the covers. It was a passion he indulged as frequently as possible, and he’d already whiled away an hour or so amongst the close-ranked bookcases.

It was the summer holidays, which gave him the leisure to enjoy browsing in the more advanced sections of Borgin and Bourkes without being spotted by one of his pupils. He was damned if he was going to be caught leafing through Sexual Magick by spotty teenagers. Oh, look, Snapey, reading about sex, as if! Or perhaps it would be the suggestion that someone as as as him would need to be good in bed to stand any chance of getting a lover.

Which was true enough to hurt a little.

Though his pupils would be surprised and horrified to discover that their Professor had an active and varied sex life: attention to detail paid off in arenas other than the Potions classroom. Something they might come to appreciate later in life, if they were very lucky.

He was what every woman dreamed of: a lover who could read her mind, who knew just where to touch, for how long and how hard.

He was admiring the crisp lines of the woodcuts illustrating the Postures of Aretino, and pondering whether his budget would stretch that far, when a familiar voice penetrated his concentration.

“Excuse me, do you have a copy of Petrie on Potions?”

Yes, the voice was definitely familiar, but who did he know that would be asking for Petrie, a particularly racy book on Lust Potions? Curious, he replaced the book he had been admiring, and casually strolled towards the shop’s entrance.

The woman had her back to him; her robes were loose-fitting which was a shame, but her stance – slightly leaning forward across the counter – meant her arse was clearly defined. And a very nice arse it was too, young and firm. It made him want to pull up her robes and ……

It wasn’t an arse that rang any bells either. It was an arse that was wholly new to him.

He had parted amicably enough from his previous lover a few months ago, and he had no ties. He moved easily from simple admiration to deciding that it was an arse he wanted to get to know better. When the assistant returned to say that they didn’t have a copy of Petrie, he took his chance. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I have a copy of the book in question, and would be only too happy to lend it to you.”

He was so intent on the arse, and the body attached to it, that he didn’t pay enough attention to the face. So it was all too late to withdraw his invitation by the time the woman said, “Oh Professor Snape, I didn’t see you there. That’s a very kind offer.”

Hermione Granger.

Oh sodding hell, he’d just propositioned an ex-pupil, could it get any worse?

Apparently the fates were smiling on him because she took the offer at face value and assumed he was serious about lending her the book. He was taken aback to find that little Miss Prim-and-Proper was interested in Lust Potions, but sufficiently intrigued to follow through on his offer. Perhaps she also had a hidden life, full of passion and desire?

He was seized with a vision of Hermione astride him, looking down at him with hooded eyes, her ferocious intellect utterly concentrated on him. There was an image to conjure with….. He could ask her back to Hogwarts, show her the book, and see what happened. Either she’d bite, or he’d have a long discussion about potions. If he was very lucky, he might get both; he’d been starved of intelligent conversation for far longer than he’d been without sex.

“In fact, if you’ve finished your business here, you might like to accompany me back to Hogwarts, and inspect the book.”

She nodded, politely thanked the assistant for his time, and turned back to Snape. He held the door open for, ar, and then offered her his arm. She was a little flustered by the attention, but relaxed when he patted her hand.

He was grateful no one saw them on the journey to the dungeons. Although there were no rules against liaisons with former students, and strongly suspected that the only result of this afternoon would be a quiet chat about potions, he didn’t want to be exposed to the kind of speculation that would result from the news that Hermione Granger had been seen in his company.

He felt a little like a teenager trying to smuggle his girlfriend home without his parents finding out; all he needed was to bump into ‘Daddy’ Dumbledore, and ten minutes of his innuendoes would see him unable to perform for months.

They went through the customary platitudes of inviting her to take a seat, and offering her a drink. His hopes fell when she chose the armchair rather than the sofa, but rose when she accepted a glass of Firewhiskey.

She was working with one of his old TutoShriShrikeman; a man it would have been a positive pleasure to kill, and who he chiefly remembered as having the soul of a bully. He didn’t envy Miss Granger’s position at all. He had survived the apprenticeship more or less intact on the basis of his Deatheater connections and a fairly unpleasant tongue of his own.

Still, he couldn’t see what relevance Lust Potions had to her present line of research, which left something of a puzzle. However, it was one that was ly sly solved.

He fetched Petrie from his bookcase, and handed it to her in the armchair, before returning to his seat opposite her. She flipped it open at the index and started scanning the page. He watched in amusement as her mouth grew into an ‘O’ of shock. She shut the book with a snap, and did a double take as she looked at the title.

With something like horror, Severus watched a tear run down one cheek, to be scrubbed impatiently away.

Miss Ger wer wasn’t prone to snivelling. Miss ger ger took hexes that made lesser mortals call out for their mothers with nothing more than a wince. She’d also saved his life. So, whatever was upsetting her, he ought to make an effort to sort it out for her. In the back of his mind there was also the thought that it was still a magnificent arse that he’d like to get to know better, and a grateful Hermione might be a receptive Hermione.

It didn’t take much for the whole sordid tale to come out. Shrikeman had been nice to her at first; right up to the moment she’d rejected his advances. Then the comments had started, and whilst she’d normally dismiss them as the petulant rantings of a sour old man, they’d struck home. Shrikeman had always had a talent for picking the tender spots.

He’d called her frigid, said she was uptight and that no man would want to sleep with such a frumpy bookworm; something that she’d been hearing, one way or another, from boys since she was a teenager. Reading was unnatural, and obviously prevented you from having a normal sex life.

Or even an abnormal one.

The crowning cruelty had been to tell her that Petrie could be useful in her research, with the obvious implication that she should try some of the potions out to cure her frigidity. Severus suspected that there was a further message that Hermione had better give Shrikeman what he wanted or her research could come to a premature end.

Snape had a theory about sex: he thought you could tell a lot about what someone would be like in bed if you watched how they made potions. Shrikeman was cold, clinical, and had a tendency to over-prepare his ingredients; give him a sharp knife, or a pestle and mortar and he wouldn’t know when to stop.

Longbottom had no technique but would be enthusiastic and eager to please; he supposed the right woman would be able to make something of him. Ronald Weasley had been content to go through the motions, wio reo real understanding of what he was doing, and a very nasty habit of putting his ingredients in early; you only had to look at his technique with daisy roots to know that he would never be anything other than second rate in bed.

Draco had been competent, but had no flair for the subject, unlike Hermione who had been a pleasure to teach. She was accurate, careful, but above all she had that flair; a mystical quality that made her aware that, even though the recipe called for 4shedshed scarab beetles, she should put in a little extra to compensate for the lack of freshness of the shrivelfig.

And if you drew that to its logical conclusion, what on earth had been going wrong with her sex life? And, more importantly, what did he have to do to get her into bed?

“Shrikeman is a bully,” he said firmly, “but you know that. He picks on the thing you are the most sensitive about, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true you know. He used to tell me that I was useless at Potions; that I’d never amount to anything in the field.”

That reassured Hermione.

Of course, it was a lie; Shrikeman had singled out his appearance and hammered away at it until the day that Severus had slipped poison into his afternoon tea, and then calmly withheld the antidote until the bastard had signed his indenture papers over to someone else.

“It’s just,” she hesitated, flushed right red with embarrassment, “I haven’t had a great deal of success to date.”

“You were going out with a Weasley. Of course you were disappointed; it was inevitable.”

“He wasn’t that bad; he was quite adventurous you know.” Her defence was half-hearted at best, just enough to satisfy her delicate Gryffindor sensibilities but not enough to convince a dispassionate hearer.

He could imagine what Weasley being adventurous would involve. It was probably the only time in his life that he would have read a book, and it would have been all the wrong ones: books with more pictures than text, and pictures of witches with unfeasibly large breasts, and an unnatural flexibility.

“Even that was a disaster,” she added mournfully. “He tied me to the bed once.” She shook her head sadly. “I just felt silly, all splayed out there waiting for him; silly, and a bit cold actually.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he said, exasperated, “those sorts of games are about domination and control, and Mr Weasley is about as dominating as a wet lettuce. It would have been better if you tried that game the other way round.”

She gave a snort of laughter, and then confided, “He kept his socks on.”

Severus didn’t have to construct the mental image of a naked Weasley, it was to the forefront of Hermione’s mind. Ronald Weasley, so proud of his jutting cock and thinking all he had to do was to wave it in front of her and she’d be begging for more, and so patently unaware of how foolish he looked wearing white – white! - socks. How quickly it had drooped when Hermione had started giggling, and when she’d started she hadn’t been able to stop.

“It seems to me the problem is quite simple,” Severus said softly. “You’ve been having sex with Gryffindors, what you need is a Slyth.”
.”

Her head came up like an antelope testing the air for lion. So, not entirely opposed to the idea, she wasn’t pretending not to understand him. There was history between them though, some of it good and some of it bad. He had to make her think of him as something other than her ex-Professor.

He moved to kneel before her chair, his robes trailing around him, fully aware of the dramatic picture he made. He took her unresisting hand. “I don’t think Gryffindors,” he said, kissing her wrist, “actually like women. They certainly don’t know how to appreciate them. They have no subtlety.”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move her hands away either; he could feel her pulse throbbing under his lips. She was looking at him intently, poised between withdrawal and stirring interest.

“Kiss me,” he said.

He could feel the curiosity unwinding in her mind, curiosity and a faint touch of hope. He’d been her teacher before; she slipped back into trusting his authority easily.

She leaned forward in the chair and pressed her lips to his; they were dry. She paused, uncertain what to do next. He gave her a subtle clue, moving his lips a little, and she followed suit. She gave a little sigh, then tentatively moved her hand into his hair. He gave a little murmur of encouragement, and he her her spark of triumph that she’d done something right.

This was nothing like the kissing she was used to; there was no slobbering, no clumsy assault on her mouth. She wanted more. He tested her lips with his tongue; they parted. He moved slowly into her mouth, and began to tease her: a slow, rolling motion, a flick, a dip, and a dart.

She learned quickly, and she was eager to put things into practice. She nipped at his lower lip, and then took it in a soothing kiss; she kissed him deeply, ferociously, pulling him to her tightly. He pulled free a little, and kiss his way along her cheek to whisper in her ear, “Let’s go to bed.”

She nodded shyly. He winced as he rose from his knees; they creaked ominously, and for one perilous moment he felt old. Then Hermione smiled at him, and took his hand, and he felt a surge of something wild run through his veins.

The bed was freshly made, and Severus tugged the covers back impatiently. Hermione hesitated, waiting for a sign from him; he patted the bed next to him, and she sat beside him. She had no hesitation about kissing him again: slowly, they relaxed onto the bed. Her fingers moved to his shirt buttons; he nodded.

She carefully undid his shirt and slipped it off. Soft, curious fingers traced his ribs, his nipples, and then her mouth followed. He had never previously noticed how tender the skin on the underside of his arm was, not until she had nuzzled along it to plant a kiss in the palm of each hand.

He wrapped her hair around his fingers, moving them restlessly through her curls as she caressed him. He moved his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her up into another kiss, deftly moving over her at the same time.

She liked that; she liked him taking control. It made her feel safe; sure that he knew where he was leading her.

He discreetly toed off his shoes and socks; there was no way he was making the same mistake as Weasley. He couldn’t work out how her robes were fastened, which probably meant it was fastened at the back. Which gave him an idea…

“Hermione? Delightful though this is, I have a suggestion.”

There was an undignified scramble, which resulted in him sitting against pillows propped up on the headboard and Hermione sitting in his lap, her back to him, and his long legs stretched out on either side of her.

She was tense again, but this time it was the right sort of tension, and it was just begging to be released.

First, the buttons; he smiled a little at the irony of him being faced with so many tiny buttons on the back of her robes. He stroked his fingers along the nape of her neck, shifting her hair to one side. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, and was rewarded with a gentle sigh of appreciation.

His fingers moved to the buttons, slipping them free of their moorings one by one, and caressing each precious inch of flesh he exposed. His thumbs moved in subtle circles parallel to the architecture of her spines, and he could feel the tension leaching out of her. Her bra was easily despatched.

She was very nearly limp by the time his hands swept up to her shoulders, and then down her arms to slide her robes to her waist. She made a reflexive move to cover herself, but he was faster. His hands were on her breasts, gently moulding the flesh, his touch becoming more assured, firmer, until he was pinching at her nipples.

Her head was thrown back and resting on his shoulder, his hot breath was hissing in her ear, and she was moving her hands restlessly along his thighs. One hand moved lower, slowly, so she could anticipate their ultimate direction, and then dipped beneath her robes.

She took a sharp breath in when his fingers touched gently on her curls, teased them for a moment, and then moved on. She was wet for him, and one finger slid easily between her folds and began to move. And it felt subtly wrong, uncomfortable, slightly annoying, there, that was better, that was the rhythm she liked until she shuddered against him.

He could feel her gradually come back, sense the moment she became aware of his cock pressed up against her, and feel that tight leap of blood through her veins.

She shifted and turned until she was kneeling between his legs. It was the first chance he’d had to look at her breasts; he put a finger out and circled one tightly furled nipple. She was smiling; a smile he’d see on her face a thousand times before when she’d solved a particularly complex problem.

“You’re using Legilimency, aren’t you?” She seemed curious rather than disturbed. He nodded. He was surprised when she began spinning images out to him – images of unbuttoning his trousers, taking out his cock, touching him. All those Occlumency lessons had paid dividends after all; and he’d thought he’d been wasting his time teaching her.

“Yes, oh god yes,” he gasped. He was in danger of coming without touching her at that rate.

She took pity on him, or rather increased the torture, as she slowly freed his cock from his trousers. She had to do it the hard way and had to guess what he liked, unless…

“Show me,” she said.

He took her hand and wrapped it more firmly round his cock, and showed her how to touch him It was her idea to run her thumb round his head, to cup his balls in her other hand and move her finger behind them, all the while she had that hawkish look on her face that he’d predicted.

He had to make his move, and he had to make it soon, if he were to live up to his promises. He put his hand on hers, stopped it working its magic, and pulled her towards him. He didn’t kiss her; he devoured her. She plastered herself to him along the length of his body, and that still wasn’t enough. He rolled her beneath him, wanting to feel her under him. Impatiently he pulled at her robes, but they were tangled round her legs.

Quickly he stood at the side of the bed, skimmed out of his trousers, and yanked her robes free. He was rough, but she rather liked that. Then he was sliding back over her, and her soft, warm body was pressed against him, and he was focussed on one thing and one thing only.

His cock slipped down between the juncture of her thighs, so close to where it truly wanted to be. He used his knee to part her legs, and then moved between them. His tip pressed against her warmth, and their eyes met. He watched her face as he slowly slid home, her mouth parted, and breathing heavily.

He reached her depths, and her fingers came round to clutch at his buttocks urging him to move. He quickly found a rhythm, thrusting and rolling his hips; he saw Hermione arch up towards him, and she dug her nails into his arse. He let go with a stifled grunt, and came to rest with his head in her neck, still lodged inside her.

She tucked her head against him, and kissed his neck. “That,” she said in very definite, if still slightly breathless, tones, “was absolutely sodding wonderful.”

He was dimly aware that she was moving him to one side, and a hand was stroking his hair, but he was suddenly overwhelming tired; sleep took him.


He felt marginally ashamed of himself when he woke a little later; it was rude to fall asleep on your partner like thaartiarticularly if that was rather more literal than metaphorical. Hermione didn’t seem to be offended though; she was looking at him with a soft expression, the one she usually wore when talking to Harry or Ron. Ordinarily he would have been offended at being put in the same category as either of those two, but just this once he would accept it with good grace.

In future, he resolved, she would be looking only at him that fondly.

“How long can you stay?” he asked.

It seemed he merited a special look of his own, because he’d never seen that smile before. “As long as you like.”

He felt a peculiar urge to say something soppy like ‘forever’, but stifled it and settled for, “I don’t have any appointments for the next week.”

“I’ll have to send an Owl to work, telling them I’ve come down with a nasty cold that needs plenty of bed rest.”

“Bed certainly,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “but not rest, not at all.”



Severus didn’t like being kept waiting. Hermione had been due to meet him some fifteen minutes ago, and he was damned if he was going to hang around like some lovesick swain. Shrikeman was probably engaged in some sort of pettiness to demonstrate his power over Hermione.

It was about time he learned he didn’t have any.

He strode into Room 403: Shrikeman without bothering to knock. The man seemed older, which was no surprise, but he also seemed smaller than he remembered.

“Who…,” spluttered Shrikeman, just as Hermione’s happy, “Severus,” gave him the answer to his question.

Apparently the news was unwelcome; Shrikeman crumpled up on himself, trying to make himself even smaller. Poisoning people did tend to make you memorable.

“There you are, my dear. You haven’t forgotten our arrangements for dinner this evening, have you?”

“No, Severus,” she said dutifully, but her eyes were full of laughter. She headed into a small room, presumably to fetch her cloak, whilst Severus continued to eye Shrikeman in a way that would have been entirely familiar to Harry Potter.

“Shrikeman.”

“Snape,” the man acknowledged. “I didn’t know you were an acquaintance of Miss Granger’s.”

“I’m not an acquaintance.”

ikemikeman said nothing in reply to that, but his eyes were fixed on Hermione as Severus twitched the cloak from her hands, and courteously arranged it on her shoulders. Hermione accepted his attentions demurely; she knew perfectly well what he was up to. He expected a long lecture on Equal Rights for Witches later, but for now she was allowing him to play who-has-the-bigger-wand without complaint.

“Tell me, Hermione,” he added silkily, eyes fixed on Shrikeman, “did you find that book on poisons you borrowed at all helpful.”

The shot struck home: a faint twitch, the loss of colour to an already pale faand and a slight beading of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Fortunatelyrmiormione waited until they were outside the door and out of earshot before asking, “Did you just threaten to poison him?”

He nodded.

There was a moment of calculation. Principle was a fine thing; but putting Shrikeman in his place was more important. Still, something was apparently called for to balance the books. Then she stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, and said, “You dear, sweet romantic man.”

He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have preferred the three-hour lecture on Equal Rights.