About A Potions Master

Chapter 10

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus had had—and depending on his mood, he replaced the participle ‘had’ with either ‘enjoyed’ or ‘endured’—a very thorough upbringing. Not only were his manners impeccable, at least if he chose them to be, he also knew by heart what was bon ton and what was its mauvais and thus to-be-absolutely-avoided opposite. Certain ways of behaving that would have seemed perfectly normal to an average wizard (probably even more so to an average continental wizard) were absolutely out of the question for the offspring of an ancient British pureblood family.

Such as questioning House Elves about other family members’ secrets.

There were, however, situations, when all those scruples had to be thrown overboard. Or at least that was what Severus was trying to convince himself of while descending the stairs and marching straight to the kitchen, the undisputed realm of Piggy, the House Elf. His whole aristocratic self reared up and whinnied at the thought of asking her about the secret his mother was obviously keeping. He tried to catch its bridles by telling himself that this was different. His aristocratic self continued furiously rolling its eyes and snorting foam out of its trembling nostrils. He made an attempt at soothing it with a piece of sugar by recalling that Piggy had practically been his nanny and second mother, and that therefore this was really different. His aristocratic self took the sugar, chewed on it pensively and said that, okay, it was going to let it pass this one time, but that he should try and get done with it as quickly as possible.

What he had to do in order to soothe his self was nothing in comparison to what it took to persuade Piggy. She loved him as if he were her own child, but the problem was that she loved his mother, and had loved his father, as if they were her own children, too, and it was difficult for her to choose one over the other. Finally, she was won over by the argument that he would have to ask his mother himself and that this would make her very unhappy, because he was quite furious. So she told him about the portrait. Dumbfounded, Severus left the kitchen, not without sternly forbidding her to put her hands into the water boiling on the stove—she was already eyeing it with guilty longing—or to indulge any other way of self-punishment, and retired into his laboratory.

Nefertiti was still there. She had exchanged the copper cauldron for a slightly larger specimen, this one made of pewter, and, upon his entrance, lazily uncurled from its bottom.

“And you, too, were in on the secret,” he accused her, conscious that this was  very irrational behaviour. “Everybody knew, except for me. You, my mother, Piggy, even Hermione—doesn't it strike you as odd that all the women knew, and the only man in the household didn’t have the faintest idea?”

Nefertiti had obviously decided to hone her hunting technique and jumped wildly at his gesticulating hands.

“Ouch!” he said, when she caught one of them and scratched it in the process, “What is it with females today? Did I overlook something? Is 15 August Harpy Day or something? Is it something to do with your hormones? You—” he tried to stare at her menacingly, but she simply rolled over onto her back, totally ignoring him “—all of you are making me feel like a complete idiot today. First Hermione.” He ticked the offensive females off his fingers. “On a perfectly lovely morning, sitting on the stairs and watching the sunrise, not to mention that I’m just meditating about the best moment to take her hand—wham! She asks the worstest of worst questions.”

Nefertiti gave a small meow and decided that it was time to sharpen her claws against the wooden top of the workbench, but soon abandoned this pastime in favour of another nap close to Severus's hip.

“Yes, I know that ‘worstest’ is incorrect, but it seems completely justified, considering the situation. Then—” he tapped his index finger “—my mother, shamelessly lying to me and playing hazard like Beau Brummel at his worst, if only metaphorically. Next—” his middle finger gave an angry crack “—The Woman Who Cowed The Boy Who Lived. Me as well, to own the truth. Although that had the undeniable advantage of informing me that Hermione is still a virgin. Interesting thought. And, to close the innermost circle of hell, the aforementioned virgin again. Chattering with the Potter wench. About an interesting conversation she had with my father. About a book he wrote. Not that I would have expected her to discuss any other topic with whomever—after all there must be a reason for her having remained in the state of innocence until the venerable age of twenty-one…”

“Professor?”

**°°**°°**

She had had her bath, and it had thoroughly satisfied her. Not only was the tub absolutely incredible—its bottom moulded to the body of its occupant, keeping him or her immersed up to the neck in a perfectly relaxed position—the combination of hot water and eucalyptus-and-lime scent had also made her see the days ahead of her in a slightly less gloomy way. As her dress-and-make-up consultant was currently humouring her mother's heavily menopaused temper, Hermione had been on her own as far as today's clothing was concerned. The decision had taken her exactly two minutes and thirty-two seconds longer than the bath—it had been a very long soak—but when she saw herself in the mirror, clad in the long black skirt, a pair of black sandals and a sleeveless white linen blouse, hair chignon-ed and lips glossed, she thought that she was looking like a cut-out figure from a St. Tropez beach promenade photo, clumsily pasted into a page of Country Life. After a brief phase of intense self-hate, she chose the khaki-coloured linen trousers with the same blouse and a pair of trainers. This time, she didn’t risk glancing at her mirrored image and swiftly left the room in search for Severus. After all, this weekend included Potions tutoring, and she was hell-bent on sucking—no, Hermione, wrong verb, wrong verb, better opt for ‘worming’—as much knowledge out of him as she could. Not to mention that she wanted to mend the breach she had caused this morning, although it was better for her self-assurance not to think about that too intensely. Mrs. Snape had made it rather clear that apologizing was not an option, and behind her back Mr. Snape had winked at Hermione and wriggled his nose in a very funny way and wagged his head, all of which seemed to indicate that he didn't agree with his wife on this point.

All in all, she thought, it was the ideal pretext for doing just what she felt the situation demanded.

Eventually, she found his laboratory, where she saw him sitting, perched on the edge of a workbench, muttering unintelligible things to a stoical Siamese cat resting beside him, to all appearances blissfully oblivious of his presence. For a while, she just stood and drunk in the sight of him. It was strangely endearing to see him like this, in very casual black trousers and a graphite-grey shirt, his raven-wing hair pushed back untidily, with one single, obstinate strand hanging diagonally over the pale face, neatly separating it into two halves. Although she lacked any real experience with male bodies, she definitely had a thing for legs. Unsure whether she hated spindly or rotund legs more, she was absolutely sure that long, slim legs with defined-but-not-bulging muscles caused a very pleasant tingle in the lower part of her belly. Due to his position, the rear part of his trousers was pulled slightly upwards, so that they clung rather tightly to his legs. She wouldn't have needed the wave of heat permeating her body to become aware that those were definitely legs she liked. Very much. The top buttons of his shirt were open—smooth hairless skin. Wave number two made painstakingly sure of washing over every fibre of her body. Forty-three wasn’t old, was it? Definitely not. Moreover, she had a series of very unpleasant memories of kisses shared with young men, and no wish to add another one. Better try something different, then.

Suddenly, she became aware that she was staring at, no, ogling him in a most inappropriate way, above all because he hadn’t yet noticed her presence. So she pulled together what little courage she had and said, “Professor?”

His head shot up. “Hermi—Miss Granger!”

To her great pleasure, he smiled at her.

“Am I disturbing?”

“Not at all. I was talking to Nefertiti. But I suspect she won't miss the sound of my voice.”

“Stupid animal,” she muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

Say it, Hermione, just say it! After all, what can possibly happen? “I said she is a stupid animal, if she doesn’t appreciate your voice.”

“I advise you not to mention anything like this near my mother.”

“Is she convinced that the cat is intelligent or that your voice is ugly?”

He chuckled. “She is convinced that Nefertiti is the second most intelligent being on this planet.”

“This is just a wild guess, but would the most intelligent one be herself?”

“If I could still award points to Gryffindor, they would get twenty for your perspicacity, Miss Granger.”

“Does she like to be stroked?”

“I do not have any incestuous tendencies, so I couldn’t tell.”

The man was actually joking! No point in denying that she liked it. She chuckled. “No, stupid, I meant the cat.”

“Miss Granger, did you just call me…stupid?”

This is bantering, Hermione, obviously one of his favourite pastimes. So play along, try to be relaxed, just for once, you know you like it. “I didn’t call you, and I’m not stupid, Professor.”

And apparently, it worked. He laughed. Her mind, although completely unbidden, produced the image of a wind-rippled expanse of black velvet. And wave number three was doing a very thorough job on her fibres.

“I suppose I asked for that one. To answer your question: she is completely unpredictable. My mother says she has the same temperament as I. Try, but at your own risk.”

Was she imagining things, or was this conversation beginning to become heavily loaded with innuendo? “I think that it might be worth the while, then,” she said, blushing, but firmly resisting his gaze.

While crossing the room, she gave it a perfunctory look-over. It was very large, the floor and the visible parts of the wall covered in white tiles, workbenches running without interruption along the walls to her left and opposite of her. Cupboards and shelves contained perfectly aligned tools, vessels and ingredients. It wasn’t dark here like in the Hogwarts dungeons, although the laboratory lay in the basement of the manor; light streamed in through a row of windows above the workbench, high up under the ceiling, and as the room was obviously in a corner of the building, it probably got sunlight all day long. A large table in the centre probably served for preparing the ingredients. All in all, this was the laboratory of her dreams.

This made her smile even more. When she arrived at the opposite side of the room, man and cat gazed at her with equally unreadable expressions, neither of them showing any intention to move so much as an inch. Nefertiti was sprawled on the wooden tabletop, almost touching Severus's thigh. Hermione stretched out her hand, very conscious of how close to him she was standing, and tentatively offered it to Nefertiti for olfactory exploration. The-Cat-That-Had-Severus's-Temperament nudged the proffered fingers briefly with her cool, humid nose. Encouraged, Hermione passed her index finger over the furry forehead and then, emboldened by the lack of hostility, over the animal’s sleek back. It began to purr.

“Now that’s a first,” Severus's voice resounded very near her left ear. “Usually, she does not react too well to strangers.”

“Speaking of similarities of character,” she muttered, cursing the gooseflesh that covered her bare arms. “But I suppose you don’t nudge your visitors’ hands with your nose, even when they are welcome.”

“No,” he agreed, smiling, “But then I usually do not receive them sprawled all over a workbench.”

The thought made her laugh, but she still kept her eyes firmly fixated on the cat and on her right hand wandering over its back in soft, slow strokes. Then she discovered, to her horror, that she was, by the very same movement, caressing his outer thigh. The spectre of a giant, paralysed centipede rose menacingly on her mental horizon. If I take my hand off both him and the cat, he might think I don't want to touch him. Which isn’t true. But if I leave it there, he might think I’m doing this on purpose, something like a clumsy attempt at seducing him. Which it isn’t. But he might misinterpret it. The question is whether that would be a problem. I don’t know. If only I knew what exactly is the appropriate amount of time to be dedicated to stroking the cat of one's host. The cuddling sessions with Crookshanks don’t count as reference value, of course. So I have no idea when to stop. But I could also start talking and pretend I forgot what I’m doing with my right hand. Yes, that would definitely be a possibility.

“I think I owe you an apology,” she said, still not looking at him but trying to ignore her right hand.

“No,” he replied, his voice calm and without any trace of the dangerous purr, “I don’t think so.”

Now she raised her head to meet his eyes. Had she really believed that there was a limit to the number of goose pimples per square inch of her skin? “Why not?”

“Because you did neither offend nor hurt me. Not really, anyway. True, you gave me quite a shock. But a shock is not necessarily a bad thing. More so as I don’t think you asked with any intention of hurting me.”

Never breaking the eye contact, she shook her head. “Of course not. I was just moving the question round in my head and somehow it just… sort of escaped.”

Her gaze still caught in his, she didn’t notice the movement of his right hand that grabbed for her left. To her surprise, she didn't flinch at the sudden contact. Only her right hand came to a standstill on Nefertiti's back. His eyes left hers and wandered downwards. Hers followed, curious to see what he was up to. He was holding her hand lightly in his, grazing her fingertips with the tip of his other index finger. Never in her life would she have thought that such a simple touch might be able to send wave number four, closely followed by number five, through her body. Their eyes met again.

With an enigmatic smile, he said, “You keep your nails very short. How appropriate for… potions-making.”

She simply nodded and realized that she had forgotten to breathe.

**°°**°°**

Her loveliness had stricken him like a ton of very fuzzy bricks, when she entered the room. Whatever she wore, she looked ravishing—probably that was also true in case she didn’t wear anything, but it was better to keep this kind of thought for later. He had originally imagined her to be more of a dress-or-skirt type but had to admit that trousers suited her equally well. They emphasized the outward curve of her hips and upper thighs much better than the dress she had worn yesterday. When she had addressed him as ‘professor’, he had felt a pang of disappointment, but then reminded himself that, after all, she had every reason to believe he was still angry with her. So he had done his best to encourage her and, to his surprise, it had worked.

Now, he was holding her slightly trembling left in his right hand and eyed the goose pimples on her arms with satisfaction. His heart did some kind of triple salto mortale when his eyes shifted to her torso and detected, through the double layer of blouse and bra, that not only her arms but her whole body were reacting to him. And she seemed to have difficulties breathing. Marvellous creature indeed.

To his casual remark about her nails, she responded with a smile and a very breathless “Thank you, Professor.”

He definitely had to end this professor nonsense, as it made him uncomfortably aware of the age difference between them. “I thought we had agreed to call each other by our first names,” he said therefore.

Adorable pout! “You called me Miss Granger only a minute ago.”

“True,” he admitted, “But only because you addressed me as professor when you entered the room.”

Her tongue slid over her upper lip, and he became poignantly aware that her right hand was still resting on Nefertiti’s back, creating a patch of pleasant warmth on his left thigh.

“That was because I thought you were angry and would kick me out of the room immediately.”

“Well,” he said lightly, still without releasing her hand, “it seems that this matter has been sufficiently cleared, so we might just as well return to calling each other Severus and Hermione, don’t you think so?”

She nodded, and made no attempt to retrieve her hand. She really didn’t need any make-up, he thought, just the bit of colour she had put on her lips, and her face was perfect. Her eyes were such a dominant feature, dark and big and expressive, with long, black lashes, that a bit of red on her mouth was enough to counterbalance it. Close as they were, he noticed a traitorous vein at the base of her throat—it was pulsing at a very accelerated rhythm. The urge to touch that spot was irresistible. So he raised his left hand and, with his index and middle finger, brushed over the throbbing, hot skin. The effect of this small caress was, to express it mildly, stunning. Gods, what a promise of pleasures to come! If she reacts like that when I simply graze her skin with my fingertips… maybe she consists entirely of erogenous zones… He smiled at her sharp intake of breath and leisurely watched a deep blush creep down her throat and further beyond the confines of the fabric of her blouse. If possible, her eyes were growing even larger. He retreated his left hand and let it join hers on Nefertiti’s back. The cat gave a small noise of assent, and both looked down at it.

“So,” he said, bending slightly forward so as to come closer to her ear, thus promptly provoking another fit of goose pimples, “what would you like me to teach you, Hermione?