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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 35 - The Refiner's Fire

Hermione had fled the gardens; or at least left at with a purposeful stride - Snape did not flee and she retained enough presence of mind to realise that the Head of Slytherin could not be seen running through the school like an hysterical school girl. That being said, not even for Dumbledore could she face another encounter with the seething mass of teenage hormones that were currently permeating the Great Hall. For this one evening discipline at Hogwarts would have to be maintained without the aid of Professor Snape; she needed too badly to get back to her rooms, to find some quiet place where she could order her thoughts and decide what it was that she had just done.

She rounded the now-familiar corridor in the dungeons, brow furrowed with the effort of keeping in character, anxiety and introspection unconsciously intensifying the air of focussed energy that usually surrounded her. Her demeanour would have been enough to inspire terror in any student foolish enough not to avoid Snape's habitual stalking grounds, but the irony of it was that there could have been an orgy of Hufflepuffs behind every statue and she would have been oblivious to it all, so wrapped was she in the shifting sands of her own confusion.

Fortunately, some merciful goddess was watching over her, and she reached her rooms without ignoring some obvious infraction of the rules; an action that would have provoked more comment than just about anything else she could have done - well, perhaps not including what she was about to contemplate doing ....

She disarmed the wards automatically, feeling the familiar sense of relief as the door clicked shut behind her, letting the school fade out around her, moving instinctively between the furniture as if it was truly now her space. The fire had been tended in her absence and was giving out a welcome degree of heat. Hermione moved closer to it, leaning against the side of the fireplace and breathing deeply, fighting the chill of February and her own whirling thoughts.

The smell of night still clung to her robes and it abruptly took her back to the conversation in the garden. She had invited him back to her rooms after the ball. Or at least she had suggested that he look in to check his experiments. What did he think she had meant? Had he heard a further invitation to study or did he think there was more to it than that? Suppose she had misread him? Suppose she was wrong? Suppose....

Hermione shook her head vigorously as if the movement would cause her unruly thoughts to shake down into order, like mercury in a thermometer. She shivered and tried to tell herself that it was the cold, that he would look into the Potions Room and simply check the cauldrons, that he wouldn't - couldn't - come, that it was too complicated, that she didn't care. She ran her hand through her hair, dishevelling it more than usual and moved away from the fire across the rug, but her thoughts came with her. Another absent gesture tousled her hair even more, and she stopped her pacing. It was a pointless exercise to tell herself that she didn't care when the tightness in her chest and her throat and her groin all told a very different story.

What was more to the point was, would he have changed his mind between leaving her and leaving the Ball?

Even tentatively approaching the idea was enough to make her throat close painfully and her eyes prickle. She bit her lip in annoyance at herself for surrendering to this adolescent drama. When - if, she told herself sternly - he arrived, she would be calm, she would offer him tea, they would discuss this like adults and come to sensible decision about what they were going to do.

She moved back towards the fire, disarranging her hair for the third time in quick succession and began to plan in her mind exactly what she would say.

She was halfway through devising a plan that she considered suitable, when there was a light tap at the door. It was a movement of air, a brush of scent too subtle to identify, an awareness that he was in the room. She turned to face him, poised offers of tea composed and ready on her tongue and found that other instincts, deeper and more powerful than the mind, were already moving her legs across the room. In the space of a few steps she took in his face, pale with high spots of colour in the cheeks, his lips slightly parted, tongue darting out to moisten them, his eyes, shadowed as if he were not quite certain of his reception. As they met her arms went round him, pulling him in to her, mouth blindly seeking his, any prospect of rational discussion swept away by other, more primal, imperatives.

In the middle of Snape's rooms, she moulded herself to him, responding pressure for pressure, losing herself in the feel of his mouth on hers, opening under her, tongue touching her mouth lightly, gently, almost asking her permission to continue. And she touched back, just as gently, sliding her tongue over his and into his open mouth, as Viktor had once encouraged her to do, but it was a fleeting thought and it had been nothing like this, nothing like rush of taste and touch and smell that invaded her senses and sent the blood rushing to that place between her legs. She felt Snape shift against her and a lightning stab of sensation shot through straight to her pleasure centres. Without intending to she made a small sound deep in her throat. And realised that she was getting distinctly hard.

Whether he had noticed her arousal or whether the sound had distracted him, she didn't know, but he broke away from her and stood back, just looking at her, hands still resting on her upper arms, rubbing gently. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, but he didn't appear to be about to say anything. She knew that this was the point at which this could be stopped. She could tell him to go, and he would simply retreat. Or he could move away, muttering embarrassed words of apology and excuse and she would make no move to stop him. Except that she wasn't willing to take that step; to be the first to step back over the line into safety and sanity. One of his hands moved from her arm to stroke the side of her face, tracing her angular cheekbone and running across her mouth. She reached up and caught his hand, pressing the tips of his fingers to her lips and tracing the finger pads with her tongue. His eyes flickered briefly shut.

Clearly he was no more willing to back away from this than she was.

She lifted her other hand and cupped his cheek. It felt smoother than she remembered and more forelgn than she expected. He moistened his lips again.

"Hermione," he said quietly, in a tone that could have been a question.

"It's all right," she said, feeling that he needed an answer and uncomfortably aware of the pressure in her groin.

He turned his head towards her hand and kissed it, and she felt his tongue tasting her flesh as she had tasted his.

And no more words, no more discussion was necessary between them. In unspoken agreement they moved towards the bedroom, not speaking, not letting go of the other. Once inside, Hermione spoke a single word and soft light spilled around them. She turned to face and felt absurdly unsure of herself, considering what had happened between them only minutes before. But now, now that they were well past the point of no return, she was uncertain as to how to make the next move without misstepping; for the first time in her life not knowing how to ask a question, or even if she should. She swallowed nervously, wondering if there was something she should say or do, wondering if there was some kind of unwritten rule that the man should make the first move. Snape, himself, wasn't doing or saying anything to help; he was just studying her with the same intentness that he devoted to his potions making. Acutely aware of the friction of her clothes over her crotch and the dryness of her mouth, she took a small step forward and tentatively placed her mouth on his.

And it was as if something had been released. Snape's arms came up around her and once again she lost herself in an exploration of his mouth. But this time his mouth was not enough; she wanted to explore his body - her body. After all, this was what she had been fantasising about for the last few months. Not breaking the kiss, but moving back a fraction, she reached for the buttons of Snape's jacket, fumbling a little and jumping at his touch when he moved to help her. Together they got the jacket open and she ran her hands over the silk vest top that he was wearing underneath, to cup one of his breasts. The material slid under her fingers and she felt something hard underneath - his nipple. Hermione had always enjoyed the feel of luxurious fabrics against her skin and she guessed that Snape was the same, given his taste in cashmere. Gently, she pinched the nipple through the cloth and was rewarded by an inarticulate noise that seemed to have some kind of direct connection to her crotch. She shuddered in response and stepped back, pulling him towards the bed.

He needed no more encouragement. Somewhere in the short space between upright and horizontal she managed to shrug off her teaching robes and her own jacket and kick off her boots. She was not aware of Snape letting go of her, but he too had managed to get down to silk top and trousers by the time he lay down beside her.

And then she was lost in an exploration of him, hands and lips roaming over his face and neck and shoulders. With one hand she pushed up the top that he was wearing and he moved to allow her to get it over his head. There was no denying his response to her; the nipples outlined by the fabric of his bra made that obvious enough. Gently, almost curiously, she ran her finger over the fabric, over the hard point within. Snape shuddered and arched towards her and unconsciously, she smiled.

In that summer of her fourth year, Hermione had undertaken a certain amount of practical research in the field of international human relations with one Viktor Krum. However, it had been a short lived project and the opportunity had not really presented itself since; the need to keep Harry and Ron alive intervening for one thing. But that, and some other detailed investigations into her own body, had given her a very clear idea of what felt good. She cupped Snape's breast with one hand again, and squeezed gently. As he moved into her touch, she slid her hand round to his back, following the edge of his bra, until she got to the catch. With the deftness of years of practice she flicked it open, and then slid her hand back again to pull the material away to free his breasts.

She drew her finger over the now naked flesh, and this time he whimpered. The sound resonated directly in her crotch and she fought the urge to touch herself there; she didn't want this to be over yet, not this quickly. She stroked Snape again, circling the nipple, caught up in the feel of the familiar flesh, knowing how it should feel, and yet not knowing; not experiencing it through two sites of touch, only being able to judge by reaction not direct effect.

She had explored with Viktor, but it had never gone further than touching and kissing, which meant that she was a virgin. But she had some very detailed and specific ideas as to how she wanted her first time to be, and she realised, with a shock, that this was the perfect chance to play that scenario out; the ultimate auto-erotic fantasy. A pulse of lust drove through her as she looked at her own body, suddenly wanting to possess it from outside as well as from inside, to experience it externally in a way that she would never be able to after the mandrakes were ready.

She bent her head and kissed the soft flesh of Snape's breast, tasting the skin, sensation filtered through taste buds that were not part of the same body. Trailing small kisses she moved to the nipple and took it in her mouth, swirling her tongue experimentally over the bud, hard in the middle of so much softness. She had never realised how soft her body was, she thought, as she ran her hands over the exposed skin; nor how stark a contrast the small points of hardness were.

Snape's hands were roaming her now, burrowed under the shirt that she still wore, running up her back, tracing the muscles, clenching occasionally as she sucked and once, experimentally, withdrew enough to blow on the wet nipple, causing him to choke. She shifted her head to suck on the other nipple and one of his hands buried itself in her hair, pulling her head in closer in encouragement. The scratch of fabric against her skin was becoming unbearable to her and she suddenly needed to be rid of it; certainly if she intended this to go in any way like her fantasy.

She lifted her head and pushed away enough to loosen the cuffs of the shirt - the top buttons had somehow come undone already - and pull the whole thing over her head. She bent, intending to take up where she had left off, but was stopped by Snape's hands on her chest, flat palmed, running over her pectoral muscles and brushing over her own nipples and oh! - that sent an electrical shock straight into her groin, causing her hips to buck reflexively. She shut her eyes as the hands continued to caress, followed by his mouth, and then one nipple was enclosed in warm wetness that teased and pulled and blew and drew out small noises from deep within her.

The sensation in her groin was now almost painful and her mind was becoming clouded by an overwhelming male need to attend to it. Another reflexive movement in response to Snape's mouth told her that she needed to be free of her clothes if she wasn't going to make a complete fool of herself. With one hand she reached down to undo her trousers. As if that was a signal, Snape drew back and began to do the same thing. Once naked, her erection was visible, hard and dark, and she was dimly surprised that it wasn't openly throbbing. Driven by her own desire and raging male lust, and determined that this was going to be as good as she could make it, she bent towards Snape to kiss one of his breasts again, and ran a hand down his stomach towards the dark curls at the top of his legs. This was how it should be, she thought; a hand caressing a rounded stomach, brushing the curls and then fingers probing, seeking out that little point that she knew was there.

Yes, there it was, another nub of hardness wrapped in soft wet warmth. She stroked, her touch sliding over the wetness, knowing now how this would feel for him, that the edge of unexpectedness would send him spiralling upwards, just as it would have done to her. She was no longer aware of the distinction between him and her, teacher and student - and who was who in this tangled situation - was she Severus or Hermione or both? She increased the rhythm and pressure of her movements, long confident strokes, playing with the textures, feeling the reaction of Snape's body. He made a soft mewling sound, a sound that seemed somehow alien, a response that she had never evoked in herself.

It sent her perilously close to the edge of self-control, despite wanting to prolong the moment, to draw as much out of it as she could. Acting more on instinct than knowledge, she maneouvered herself so that she was poised above him, looking down at him, taking in the flush that covered most of his body, the unfocussed pupils, so far dilated that they were as black as her own. She closed her own eyes, trying to still her breathing, control her body even at this point.

"Hermione?" The question was thick, distant, as if he was having trouble speaking. She opened her eyes again to meet an uncertain gaze. "Are you .. I mean ... am I ... ?" He tailed off, visibly embarrassed.

She felt her throat close at the fact that he had thought to ask, and then realised that the issue was probably a more pertinent one for him than for her.

"Yes," she whispered. "But it'll only hurt for a moment. It'll be all right, I promise."

She had no idea if that was actually right or not, but it seemed very important to reassure him just then. Which led on to another consideration. She knew her own experience, or lack of it, but she had no idea of Snape's and it didn't seem like a good moment to bring it up, given his obvious discomfort with the subject. She assumed that, given his age, he must have had some previous experience, although she certainly wasn't about to dwell on where he might have got it. His body would remember what she didn't know, she decided, just like it had with flying and dancing.

"It's like riding a bicycle," she thought with a sense of the surreal, "you never forget."

"I have never ridden a bicycle, Hermione," came the muttered response.

It startled her slightly; she hadn't realised that she had spoken out loud. Too bemused with need and lust to analyse his comment further than a vague idea that he must have taken her literally, she murmured another reassurance, brushing her mouth across his. Trusting her body to know what it was doing, she positioned herself and felt fire spike through her as Snape's hand closed around her, guiding to where she needed to be.