Sanguinem Maledicta

12

They kept having sex.

She, Hermione Granger, reputation-ally a good girl, was having sex with her professor, Severus Snape, reputation-ally a dungeon bat.

They had sex in the evenings and also in the mornings sometimes and it was brilliant and utterly inappropriate and she had no intention of stopping until she was too close to death's door to continue.

After the first two nights, once Severus had proven himself to himself, it became much less tense. It had, she decided in retrospect, simply been a matter of settling things between them.

He was a generous lover. Which was initially baffling because 'generous' and 'Snape' were not two words that Hermione could think of associating together, but then she realized that based on everything she knew of him, he had never done anything halfway in his life.  

He spent an astonishing amount of time touching her. She'd wake in the morning to the sensation of his fingers tracing across her skin, his lips pressing kisses along her shoulders and spine. She'd sleepily roll over into his arms and they'd have dreamily slow morning sex before getting up.

Hermione would sleep for a few hours longer before heading up to class.

Somehow, despite her fantasies, she hadn't considered that Severus would be someone who was intensely physical. Sensuous, yes, but not necessarily sexual.

She'd always noticed the way he moved and spoke.

"Bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses..." what sort of person said such things to a room full of eleven year olds?

However, he'd always been entirely isolated. Not someone who touched anyone voluntarily unless there was some kind of vital necessity. She hadn't considered that it was because he didn't have anyone to touch.

Now that Hermione was someone he was permitted to indulge in physical intimacy with, it was as though he was entirely without a sense of moderation.

He touched her, voraciously.

He broke his own rules.

His fingers would ghost along her waist or arms, hidden from public view and she would feel his breath on the back of her neck even when he passed her by in a chance encounter at an empty corridor.

It was as though he possessed a latent possessive streak that he could no longer rein in.

Quick. Careful.

He'd been a spy. He knew how to be deceitful, all the tricks of misdirection. He was well aware of all the habits and observations of the student population. His behaviour in the castle remained entirely consistent. He was just as surly and cruelly vindictive towards the students of Hogwarts as he had ever been. No one would ever look up at him scowling wrathfully from the Head Table and imagine he was getting laid or ever had been.

Hermione would steal glances at him sometimes while eating in the Great Hall and if his intrusive eyes met hers, she would cast her mind out towards him, deliberately recalling vivid images of his body upon and inside hers, or his fingers bringing her to a climax.

His face would instantly turn red and he would look determinedly down at his meal.

Then, in the evening, he would punish her for it, in a variety of delectable ways.

It was exactly what she wanted.

She was so absorbed in their affair that she stopped spending all her time thinking about the fact that she was dying. There was no mental space to fret or despair over the future when her mind and body were utterly enraptured by the present.