Passion\'s Highs

disclaimer: I don\'t own \'em, nor would I want to (too much responsibility).
Until I suss my new PC\'s quirks < > contains a character\'s thoughts.


You couldn’t believe your ears. Patrolling to the Astronomy Tower, your hand rested on the rusty handle, her voice, floating down in snatches of ecstasy.

Hermione Granger. Minerva’s perfect Prefect. You had hoped she night have the wit to choose a more imaginative trysting-place.

Your mouth quirked up in a shiver of a smile. You cannot swoon over the romance of two groping teens as does Pomona Sprout, nor tut fondly as Minerva will, unless one of the guilty parties is a Slytherin corrupting the innocent of a rival House. Neither, Merlin be praised, do you share the supposedly theoretical interest of Flitwick. That Albus tolerated his pathetic excuse for voyeurism puzzled you, until you realised the old buffoon was bribing him for information.

And now you would catch Miss Perfect in the act. Something you refused to acknowledge twisted gut gut as you mounted the stairs to the Observation Deck, something easily squelched as the sneering words rose as bile in your throat. Corrosive, they stopped at your tongue.

Not a schoolboy. The length of the bare legs, the definition of the buttocks above which her ankles locked betrayed her paramour for a mature man. Your angry smirk tightened.

Minerva’s mortification would be complete. Her favourite, sneaking an adult lover into the grounds past midnight! An expulsion offence.

Again the slice of something best not considered. Potter’s sidekick. A mouthy, interfering little nuisance. Hogwarts - and you - would be well rid of her.

Then you saw it. The serpentine lower swish of the scar.

You had not seen it from that angle; formidable wizard you may be, but you’re no contortionist. Curving, sinuous, the elongated S cut by the crack of a blade-thin leather whip.

You gulped. Probably you even squeaked. And as the panting girl emitted a high yelp, you found your voice.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS - ABOMINATION?”

The pale figure - how stupid you’d been, assuming all his colour drawn to a specific location - jerked back as if hit by an Unforgivable, leaving the girl spreadeagled, bushy hair everywhere, sex-pink and sweaty before you. What manner of man is it finds himself in the presence of a voluptuously nude eign-yen-year-old and unable to stare at her?

One who stares at her paramour and sees - himself.

“Stupid boy!” you roared, furious as your double vainly tried to hide his - your- shrinking cock. “Do you think I’ve never seen it before?”

The girl had the gall to snicker as she sat up, shaking her impossible mane to obscure the lush curve of her breasts, her arms wrapped around drawn-up knees: a demure position for one caught, to all intents and purposes, in flagrante with you. It annoyed you, didn’t it, to find yourself fighting off a smile?

“Well, Miss Granger.” You were proud of your control; any other male on the staff would have been reduced to jibbering by encountering the most appealing of pupils playing out a perverted fantasy with their double. “You have not lost your competence in the preparation of polyjuice. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and a week’s detention for theft. I had noted the disappearance of the boomslang skin.”

The point loss hit hardest. You flashed a glare at the shivering child in borrowed form, not even bright enough to wrap himself in abandoned robes. “And a further fifty for supposing this dribbling adolescent could represent me with anything beyond superficial accuracy.”

You had to watch to taunt her, see her nipples part the damp tresses as her head snapped up. “But you don’t know who…”

She had changed. You had watched with secret pride the gauche muggleborn develop into a brilliant, self-possessed scientist, an adornment to whichever field she might enter. “I doubt you could persuade more than a choice of two boys to participate in this rash escapade, young woman. I suspect this--” a jab of the forefinger, enough to make Snape Two shrivel as the original never would “--to be the Failure of Fable. Put your clothes on, Potter, and stop snivelling.”

“H-how could you know?”
gra grated; nausea rose at the sound of your voice being abused by that pigshite-brained little nothing. “Weasley would have blurted something stupid by now, boy! Is this your payment of debt to The Girl Who Thinks For The Boy Who Scraped Through?”

She remained dependant on the curtain of mahogany silk to protect her modesty, and you were savouring the sight. Contrary to student belief, you are a normal, red-blooded wizard, and such sights do not present themselves on a daily basis. There was food for months of masturbatory fantasy in this scene. Long-buried urges were stirring; your vision was blurring. “Get dressed, girl!”

A mistake. The rasp of the words caught her notice. She jerked her head to the door, forgetful of the self-absorption of her accomplice. “Get out, boy!” you snarled, unable to drag your eyes from her as she stood; stretched. Teasing you?

Potter-as-Snape fled, clanging the door behind him. For the first time since the sickening lurch of realisation you began to relax, enjoy the potential of your predicament. Your humour was further improved by the sound of tumbling and a muffled “ouf!” as the Brat Who Shouldn’t Have tripped over his robe-ends and landed in a heap at the stair foot. Outlined by silver as she loitered before the window, lashes down, your companion gave Nimue’s smile. “Rather a prat, isn’t he?”

She might have been in full uniform behind her bench, so unconcerned was she. You moved to block the door, wng fng for fear to break through. Surely she knew the trouble you could cause over this?

She looked you up and down. Chased the tip of her tongue around her lips.

“He owed me.” You arched a brow; an effective terror technique honed on hundreds of children that appeared to have lost its power over Hermione Granger, making you suspect the rearing beast between your legs was visible through the folds of your robes. If she was shivering, it was from cold, excitement… anything but the dread she ought to have been experiencing.

You, meanwhile, were finding it hard to breathe. Alone in the night with a naked wanton, your flesh prickling with realisation.

She met your hooded gaze and held it, daring you to object. Proud, she watched you, the challenge in her stance inviting you to enter her mind, penetrate her conscious as your duplicate had her body. See that you, of all wizards, were the she she yearned to writhe beneath in magnificent abandon. That you were the one she had called on Potter’s pompous heir to impersonate, and why.

A paltry job he had done of it, as of everything else. Hermione Granger wanted - needed - a man to satisfy her, body, mind and soul. The urge to show what the man of her choice could do was growing; a heavy shadow moved over your mind, casting a hint of the old Darkness over your conscience. “Get dressed and go, Miss Granger.”

She knew her power. She gave a lazy stretch and shook back her hair, offering unexpurgated vistas of luscious curves, gilded by the moon’s glow. She was otherworldly, head back, spine arched; more than erot You You couldn’t look from her succulent breasts, could almost feel them against your tongue. And she knew it.

“Why should I go, Professor?” The low hum of enquiry passed from ear to groin, bypassing the brain to make you thrust into thin air. Even the respectful enunciation of your title was a seduction. She slinked across the floor, light and shadow dancing across manifold perfections, yours for the taking, until she was against you, insinuating herself into your cloak. Her hand dipped, and you matched gasps as her nimble fingers found their target. You were so hard. She had known you would be.

“You’re human after all.” She dared preen at your discomfort, little harlot! “Have you noticed the way I’ve stared at you in class, Sir? Can you guess how many nights I’ve brought myself off by imagining your head between my thighs, your tongue sucking my clit? Yes, I stole the boomslang skin from your stores. Harry owed me, even if he is a poor substitute for the mature man.”

She chuckled against you ear, tongue dipping and turning the last of your brain cells to mush. “I had to impersonate Trelawney for him. Christ in a caftan, I preferred being Millie’s cat! “ Oooh, Sybil! Yes, prophesy for me, Sybil!”

“And now you’ve ruined my reward, Professor. What are we going to do about that?”

You understood what she was about; a Slytherin touch, to disable your brain with a shimmy of her delectable body. Gooseflesh was breaking out over her, making you ache to wrap her in your robes, kiss all your burning heat into her blood. And still her fingers, soft, dainty, amazingly sure, played through the wool of your pants, dragging out the strength from your legs. You bit your tongue until you tasted the copper of blood. A student. So long since you had felt these things. So very long.

“I gate ate next week.” N.E.W.Ts are over, she meant. A toss of the head brought her hair, faintly woolly, to lie against your chest. The smell of it, sweet and fruity, was striking the Potions Master at the most sensitive point, your nostrils. The hand not squirreling into your boxers brushed your brow, slipping on the telltale sheen of sweat. “So. Do you really want me to dress and leave?”

The threat broke you. Your right hand shot to catch her chin, holding it up for the ravishment of her mouth. Your left curled over her shoulder, down to the small of her back, over her hip until she was lifted, her most tender place pressed direct to yours. She whimpered, the sound vibrating pleasantly on your tongue. Dear Merlin, you were wearing too many clothes!

You’d moved from want to take without conscious thought, and the step, once made, was irreversible. She moulded to fit you, ripping her way through the endless buttons between her and satisfaction. Your position was enviable. Satin skin slid beneath your hands; you gorged yourself on her body while she sought access to yours. You are not the wizard to turn away from oft-imagined opportunity.

Soft. Warm, willing, demanding your homage, her moans muffled by the hot cavern of your mouth. You staggered when she tugged you, tumbling onto the cushioned couch she had sprawled over before. Sprawled with a boy in a man’s form, a boy unable to satisfy, ignorant of the tricks unpractised by you for too many years. You have not forgotten them.

She lost patience with your clothes; lunging for her wand, she cast the charm that sent them spinning across the room. The joy of having her unblemished palms on you! The damp bliss of her mouth, dragged free of yours to latch against the base of your throat.

Her hair. Ticklish, trailing her mouth south as she kissed her way over your chest. The sureness of your hands deserted you; you grabbed wildly, kneading the rod hid hillocks of her breasts, sliding down the curve of her belly and sideways to grasp her hips. You groaned under the onslaught of stimuli before rolling her, nudging her open with your knee until you could rest within the vee of her thighs.

She was so wet for you, Severus. Humid moisture slicked your leaking tip with the promise of perfection to come. She sighed your name; tipped her hips in welcome. You damn near came on the spot.

She snatched you, hard by the base. The flex of her fingers shot sizzles of sensation from ears to toes. She arched, whimpering her wants. Can you deny her now? Deny yourself?

Of course not. You plunge in deep, feel the tightness of her walls clamp and shiver along your length. Her juices slurp, her hands bruise sho shoulders with their vice-like grip. You lift your head to watch her, silver and black by starlight. She is your Hermione now. And for ever.

You must hold on. It’s been a long time, and your body screams for the shattering release it knows builds, but you’re determined, this is not for you alone. She bucks, her mounting excitement evinced by rising moans, puppyish yelps. The prim schoolgirl is forgotten; you ride, like a madman, a scarlet woman. She is flushed, wild-eyed. Magnificent.

Her voice breaks. Sweet Circe, it’s good to hear a woman sob your name in passion’s grip! She convulses; she screams. As the spasms rip her, you can at last let go.

An iron hand has grabbed your cock, and it’s pummelling. She is melting around you, and you cannot hold back. Your head threshes, liquid fire shoots your length, spilling the loneliness of eighteen years into her rippling womb. She jerks afresh in greeting, and you raise your voice in a roar of primal, animal relief.

It goes on and on, doesn’t it, the tingling in your gut and the sweet burn from your balls through your prick. You never want it to end, but you’re so giddy, losing consciousness, want to hold every instant until you slump, h ham hammering in your ears, melted into her curves a boneless, blissful jelly of satiation. A sound bubbles off your tongue; her name? You’re so heavy, so sleepy, you cannot be certain.

She is holding you - hugging, they call it. The fingers you’ve long admired comb your sweaty hair. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

She must feel the upturn of your mouth against her throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re not going to take more points?”

Flirting. Your eyes sting. “I have never been more tempted to award a score.”

“Please don’t.”

The tower seems to tilt as, cautious, you lift your head. You wonder if you look as smug as she, and find you don’t care. “I am not trying to bribe you.”

She tugs the wayward lock of hair that sticks over your left eye. “You’re not cross with me?”

Such a foolish thing to say to a man who has lost his every pain and resentment between her thighs. “I am - somewhat offended, Miss Granger,” you drawl, and though the words trouble her, she is calmed by the new, playful tone. “That you should assume Potter could imitate me in any way accurately. Promise me - no more playing with polyjuice.”

She stretches, her smalvemevement doing something delicious where you join. “Hmmm, I prefer the genuine article,” she coos, and you know now you’re grinning as foolishly as she. “Can I - see you again?”

“Whenever yish.ish.”

“It’s not just a lust thing.”

Something strange has happened to hea heart. “Nor for myself. I know our relationship--” she laughs at the way your tongue twists around the word “--has not been easy, but… will you have lunch with me, early in the holiday?”

“Gladly.” She has a radiant smile, one it thrills you to see directed your way. What is happening to you, should you not be opposing this madness with all your considerable strength? No!

Hermione - a delicious name, you will never think Granger again - cannot get enough of touching you; a pat of the shoulder; a tweak of the nipple; a pelvic twist to shoot secondary fire through you. “Will you visit, when I’m settled in Oxford?”

“I would - like that.” Not effusive, but she understands. Hermione is not a Weasley, to shout her business from the rooftops. You kiss her smooth brow before, reluctantly and with a faintly slurping pop that makes you both grin, extracting your softened cock and summoning your clothes with a word. “The sun will be up . W. We cannot be found here.”

You would not appreciate her were she less than a pragmatist. She too summons her robes and, deliberately slow, covers herself. Fully dressed, she pauses beside you, her mouth rested on your jaw, limpid gaze caressing you. “See you at breakfast,” she whispers before passing on to skitter down the stairs. Doubtless she hears and wonders at your laughter, the rarest of Hogwarts melodies, in the moment before the door clangs between you.

You stare at the sunrise as a man seeing it for the first time. Yes, Severus Snape, there was a reason We, the Deities, allowed you to survive the final battle after all.