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He lowered his wand, studying her warily. “…You’re going to milk that promise like a Devonshire cow, aren’t you?”

A smirk was her only answer. As was a tighter settling of her arms that deliberately jiggled her prominent flesh. He stared at her chest, at the soft, warm valley and hills of creamy flesh that he wanted to lick until his saliva gleamed on her skin…

Shaking off the distraction, Severus blinked, frowned slightly in concentration, and flicked his wand. “Sartorlagen.”

His clothing vanished in the promised eyeblink. Hermione shifted, stooping and peering under the coffee table. A pile of neatly folded black met her gaze, with the only spot of white his shirt, almost lost in the stack of trousers and coat. Black boxers sat prominently on the top of the stack, as if to chide her for her imaginings, and his shoes sat to the side.

“Impressive,” she murmured, straightening. Then eyed his body from toes to head, lingering for more than a few moments at the top of his thighs. “But then, you usually are.”

It was fun to watch him blush, his sallow-pale skin turning peachy from scalp to mid-chest. His erection twitched at the compliment, bobbing slightly. Severus looked down at himself almost diffidently, as if contemplating his navel, though she knew he was contemplating his length and thickness. “Hermione…I’m not…large.”

“I’ve seen pictures—I’ve confiscated my share of PlayWitch from my dorm-mates…and then spent a couple hours giggling over the pictures within them,” she added as he looked up at her in curiosity. “You’re not small.”

“But neither am I large, and…” His voiced trailed off as she planted her palms on her hips and pinned him with a hard look.

“Were you about to spout some ruddy macho nonsense about women only preferring men who are large?” she enquired icily, though the irritation in her brown eyes looked rather hot-tempered for such a chilly tone. “Because I can tell you right now, you’re too bloody perfect a lover for me to

care what size you are. You’re not so tiny or stubby I can’t feel a damned thing, and you’re not so

huge, I feel like I’m giving birth to a watermelon each time we make love. Nor so bloody long that I feel like I’m being spitted for a holiday roast.”

“You hardly have enough experience to judge what a ‘perfect’ lover might be,” he reminded her, his muscles stiff, his voice cool, and his gaze shuttered. “You have known only me.”

“Well, I certainly have had enough experience with you to know what a smashingly good orgasm feels like!” she shot back, lifting her chin as she not quite glared up at him. “And I’ve heard plenty of complaints from the other girls—those who’ve gone all the way—on how lousy, unskilled, poorly talented, too-quick, and thoughtless their own boyfriends usually are, when it comes to sharing their pleasure!”

He winced, at that. “I am not your boyfriend, Miss Granger,” Severus emphasized, doing his best to remind her that theirs was not a normal relationship. “You and I are associating under very unusual circumstances, and are forced by those circumstances to continue associating. Even if we were to loathe each other immensely during it. And…though we may now be friends,” he allowed with a level of honesty that was painfully uncomfortable to admit out loud, but which would save him a hellacious amount of dignity later, “…we are not ‘going steady’, or whatever current euphemism you care to use.”

“No, we’re not going out together. We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend,” she agreed, with a quiet dignity that both relieved him and dredged up some admiration for the way she didn’t dissolve into unhappy, girlish tears. “We’re not dating, we’re not going steady, we’re not courting, we’re not holding hands in the corridors, or kissing between reading our textbooks and lesson-planners, or arranging to spend our Hogsmeade weekends together for some sight-seeing and window- shopping, nor telling our best friends to sod off if they should try to tease us or give us any flak!” she agreed firmly, slashing her hand between them. “But we are lovers. You cannot deny that!” “Circumstances—”

“Circumstances be damned!” she snapped, flipping a stray, light-brown lock of her curls from her face, where it had tumbled. Lightning flashed again, though the thunder this time didn’t come immediately on its heels. She poked her finger up at his face. Threatening not to jab him, but to simply touch him. “Don’t make me think the truth out of you! Petrify that serpent you call a spine and admit as much!”

Shutting his eyes, Severus shook his bowed head slowly, trying not to smile in case she took it the wrong way—even in the midst of a row like this, he had to admire her quick wit. He wasn’t quite speechless at her vociferousness, but he was somewhat in awe of her. Sighing quietly, he looked at his lover once more. His gaze drifted down over her flushed cheeks, her straightened shoulders, her full breasts and the hand that was still planted on her hip. Raising his eyes back up to her face, he gave her a blunt look. “Yes. We are lovers. With caveats and codicils, and a scaly nightmare thrown into the stew. Hermione…we cannot…” He broke off, uncertain how to phrase what he wanted to say, without touching on the one subject that seemed to be carefully, mutually forbidden to them, even in their thoughts. “Ours is neither a normal nor a natural relationship—strong emotions are our enemy, in this particular game.

“Whether the strength of it comes from loathing or liking, joy or sorrow, to allow ourselves to feel strong emotions, true emotions, would only weaken our defenses in the face of the Dark Lord’s Legilimency. When I was training your nearsighted friend in Occlumency,” he continued, picking that description as the least insulting to use in her presence, “I had to warn him time and again to calm his heart, emptying it of his feelings. Needless to say, it did not work very well. Our…our mutual antagonism was too great to promote an atmosphere of calm. Between you and I, it is not that much different,” he added, moving quickly off the uncomfortable subject of Potter. “There are only a few emotions with which we could be permitted free reign. Lust is something Voldemort would expect to read in our minds, and the same for contempt and shame for each of us, respectively. Anything else could damage the illusion we must present, of whatever flavor that emotion might be. Do you understand?”

She studied him, both hands on her hips once again. A reluctant-sounding sigh escaped her lips. Or maybe it was just a tired one. “I understand. I don’t like it, because I don’t like our circumstances as a whole. I’m just saying…I’m just saying I have no idea how we got onto this bloody topic,” Hermione finally muttered, her conversational exhaustion rallying itself with some show of briskness in her tone. “You are right; we daren’t examine anything too closely right now, because we’ve got a functional working relationship right now, and that’s exactly what we need to get ourselves through this situation in one piece. We don’t need anything further mucking up the mess we’re already in. And I am right, in that we are taking advantage of our circumstances to be lovers to each other, to experiment with all the various ways we can think of to pleasure each other, and that it’s alright to do so.

“It’s not shameful, or embarrassing, or contemptuous, or hateful. And I’m glad it’s not. I’m glad it’s been quite brilliant so far. Because though I may have been inexperienced physically when we started, I’d heard quite enough about others’ experiences to know that what you and I have, Severus Sebastian Snape, is more important than size or length or whatever. We have chemistry. We proved that the first time we met down here, and continued proving it each time we didn’t absolutely have to take any ‘liquid courage’ to be able to perform. And I find nothing shameful in admitting we have chemistry,” she finished with a shrug as thunder rumbled in the distance. “It happens.”

Severus stared at her in the silence that followed her statements. She shifted her stance a little, as if she wanted to fold her arms defensively across her chest, but finally settled for lifting her chin a little, defying him to comment. Finally, he did. “I find myself amazed by you, and your sometimes startlingly mature perceptiveness. And amazed a second time, that I should find myself amazed at all…now that I am coming to know you better.”

She blushed a little, lowering her gaze. Clearing her throat, Hermione brought them back to their task. “Right. Well, neither amazement, nor argument, nor mutual admiration will get us moving along.” She lifted her chin at the lump of canvas on the coffee table. “What’s in the sack?” “Secondhand clothes, of course,” he drawled.

“I realize that,” she chided him, a touch of impatience coloring her voice with exasperation. “What, exactly, is in the sack?”

“Secondhand clothes,” he repeated himself, not sure if she would mind the things he had picked out. He tried to reassure her, adding, “Thoroughly laundered, of course.”

Reaching for the bag as she arched a brow pointedly, silently ordering him to get on with it, he loosened the drawstring at the mouth and reached inside. The flannel shirt he pulled out was tatty,

plaid, and a lurid cross of green and yellow stripes. It was followed by a pair of paisley-patterned dungarees with holes in the knees. Both of which he passed over to her

Her brow and nose wrinkled in disgust, even a smidgen of horror as she took them with her fingertips. “You have got to be kidding…”

“Put them on, Hermione. The bright colors and patterns will force your mind to concentrate. You must be able to topographically fold the garments in your mind despite the distractions of their patterns. Hideous though they might be, these will be useful for such practice.”

“I don’t know how useful they’d be,” she told him dryly, “not when I’d be picturing them tossed into the fire for daring to touch me—oh, good heavens! And I thought my outfit was bad!” He had pulled out a white turtleneck pullover splotched with giant, neon-bright, rounded, stylized flowers with holes in their centers, and a pair of pants flared at the trouser cuffs and striped vertically in hideous shades of orange, brown, yellow and red. He eyed the shirt, eyed her, then held it out, silently offering a trade. When she hesitated, he rolled his eyes. “I do not think this…thing…is broad enough for my shoulders. Trade me that shirt, Hermione.”

“Like it’s large enough for my breasts?” she protested as she took it, though she did offer the bilious plaid in return. Sighing roughly, she pulled it over her head. And grimaced as the material did indeed stretch too tightly over her breasts for decency. She had to reach down through the high, rolled-over neckline to lift up her breasts, for the knit material had squished them uncomfortably flat. She flicked out the patterned jeans in preparation to putting them on, and realized that Severus was staring at her. Stilling, she stared back, studying the dazed, hungry look in his dark eyes, in the way his lips hung just a little slack as he devoured her knit-squashed breasts with his eyes. She blushed, but gamely asked, “See something you like?”

Finishing the act of shrugging into the ugly-bright shirt, he shifted forward and dropped to his knees, his hands cupping her knit-encased ribs. His nose and brow rubbing against the tautly contained mounds, he groaned. A slide of his hands down to her bare buttocks as he nipped at a taut, utterly unconcealed nipple with his teeth made her gasp. Part of it was from the stimulation of his teeth, but part of it was from a tenderness in her bottom.

Licking her nipple through the fabric wasn’t as fun, texture-wise, as it could have been, though he could feel her enjoyment. Swaying to the side, he craned his head past her hip, eyeing her left flank…and the handprint-sized bruises on her buttocks from where he had struck her. He remembered how strongly he had struck her, and everything else he had done. [Hermione…I’m

sorry; I didn’t mean to injure you.]

{You’re making me hot again,} she grumbled.

He didn’t have to ask her why as he glanced up at her blushing face. Even without the wave of pleasurable memories rolling from her to him, her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had closed, her lower lip caught sensually in her white teeth. Shifting his left hand from her backside to her groin, he hesitated as she shivered from the ticklish glide, then wormed two fingers between her nether- lips. Wet heat met his questing touch. His right hand convulsed involuntarily on her left buttock at the lascivious discovery…and she moaned and clenched her thighs. More of her dew coated his hand as she shifted a little in the attempt to grind herself against him, a warm little spurt of slickness that made his manhood twitch with need and seep with its own aroused essence.

A need passed between them, a graphic sub-thought that she started, and he expanded. A twist and she faced the coffee table, dropping her hands to the tops of the books, her forehead almost touching the bag of clothes. A shift of his knees and he positioned himself behind her. Clutching her nether-cheeks in his hands, Severus ruthlessly pried them apart, making her bruises ache just like she wanted.

The crusted sight of dried semen around her puckered hole riveted him. She had walked around all bloody day long with his ejaculate smeared on her body. For a shuddering moment, it was all he could do to keep from cumming at the thought alone. As soon as he calmed himself down enough, he muttered the perineum charm. Hands convulsing, he leaned in and licked, suckled, tasted, savoring this proof of her obedience to his perverted wishes.

Her gasps and moans were the sweet strains of the orchestration of his mouth, her writhing body the rhythm of his melody. With the proof of his brutality there before his eyes in shades of purple, black and yellow-tinged blue whenever they briefly opened, he did his best to make up for her mauling. He brought her to orgasm once, twice, thrice, as ruthless in a way as he had been back at noon. When her thighs trembled and her knees gave way, he pulled back quickly, guiding her falling hips down, impaling her with blessed accuracy as she landed in his lap with a wide-eyed grunt of surprise.

Wrapping his arms around her, still smelling her musky essence smeared joyously in his nostrils, across his lips, Severus marshalled his scattered thoughts, forcing both of them to calm down. The tickly soft-crisp feel of her waistlength curls, trapped between her back and his chest, didn’t help. He had fantasies about those curls he hadn’t even tapped into, yet… [Easy…now, try to picture

the sexy shirt you are wearing…]

His choice of words shocked her out of her daze. {—Have you gone bloody colorblind?}

His hands shifted, cupping her breasts in their taut covering. A lustful sub-thought passed between them, graphically male in its appreciation. He squeezed, then flicked her nipples with his thumbs, emphasizing his point.

{Oh…}

[Picture the shirt,] he directed her, trying to ignore the way her body pulsed with aftershock-style pleasure around his aching shaft. [Picture it first on your own body, then picture it firmly hovering

over the table in front of us. Don’t bother to shape or fold it, this first time.] When he read the

image in her mind, he nudged her mentally. [Now, try the spell.]

Flicking her wrist to activate her wand, Hermione swished it. “Sartorlagen!”

Her shirt popped from her body into the air over the coffee table, and promptly fell, draping itself over the canvas bag. [Well done! Y our first attempt, and you didn’t damage or splinch the shirt,] Severus praised her, sliding one hand down her belly to her nether-curls. Cupping her mound, he used his ring and index finger to part her feminine lips, and used his middle finger to tease and circle her clitoris. [Your reward…]

The soft, circling touch on her desire-stiffened nubbin had her moaning and arching her head back until it rested on his shoulder, her body quaking with pleasure as she sat, willingly helpless, while he played with her body, one hand plucking at the curves and peaks of her breasts, the other at the folds and valleys of her womanhood. Stilling his hands before she could have more than a minor orgasm, he smiled at her frustrated moan.

[Now, put the shirt back on again.] His fingers fiddled a moment with her body, adding encouragement to the order.

{—I heard that sub-thought of yours, Severus Sebastian bloody-minded Snape!} Hermione growled mentally. {You’re trying to instill another Pavlovian response in me!}

{Really? Whatever gave you that foolish idea?] he enquired in his most silky mental sneer, tweaking her left nipple and her clitoris both with matching, synchronized little pinches.

{Oh god, that voice, in my mind!} She shivered in another minor orgasm. It took her a few seconds to gather her scattered wits. {You’re…you’re trying to get me to associate this ruddy

spell with all the pleasure you can give me, so…so that every time I use it…ah, sweet Merlin!…every time I use it, I get all hot and and wet and really bothered by it! You’re bloody preparing me for you!}

[Like any good potion, a lot of its power comes in the care invested in its preparation,] he reminded her, smirking as he nuzzled the curve of her ear. A shift of his hips reminded her firmly that he was embedded in her body. [Lean forward, pick up the shirt, and put it on, there’s a good

puss.]

It had fallen just far enough away that she had to lean forward to reach for it. Leaning forward caused his manhood to press into her at a new, somewhat inventive angle. That angle, combined with the circling touch of his fingertip, sent her up to the edge of a new precipice of pleasure,