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You had seen this thing a few times before - a flick of the switch, lights off, projector on, change the slide. A muggle device, old and dusty, casting pictures on the rough wall behind the teacher's desk. It was one of the few uncharmed muggle things that were actually helpful in the wizarding world, although only a handful of teachers were using it during their lessons, and even fewer knew how to actually use it.
One of them, strangely enough, was your Potions Professor. Normally, you'd only witness him working his knife in precise patterns, smashing seeds with quick, sharp motions, eyes narrowed in concentration, or standing over your cauldrons with an exasperated expression on his face because, naturally, no one met his high expectations when it came to brewing. He was extremely stingy with praise.
Once in a blue moon, he would mutter an Adequate work over your concocted potion and would look so constrained doing so you feared you actually did something extremely wrong.
He was a strange, solitary man with a sharp, witty tongue, and sometimes you thought that he held the title of the most hated Professor in Hogwarts with a grim relief.
You, however, grew to somehow like the man clad in all black, as strange as it sounded, because you should have been the epitome of his nightmares.
You were captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, an excellent Chaser. Exceedingly unrivalled in every match. You worked your ass off ever since your second year, initially fueled by keeping your promise to kick Draco Malfoy off his broom and win the Quidditch Cup for the first time in over seven years, but the first time you mounted you broom with that silly brown ball in your hands, you never looked back. It was your calling.
A beautiful way to escape life and blow off steam.
Despite your love for the sports, it wouldn't be truthful to claim that you hated studying, in fact, you were hungry for so much more. You hung on the very lips of each professor, eyes scanning your books in record time, the eager scratching of quills on parchment was your favorite symphony, and you left every lesson with a buzz.
Straight O's were your friends, but you didn't particularly care for your grades. It was your inner curiosity and thirst for knowledge that drove you. You were the bright and shining star of your house, inside and outside of the classroom.
Yes, you were the flagship student of Gryffindor, and you bore that title with humbled pride.
It wasn't even an open secret anymore, the rivalry between Slytherin and your house, and Severus Snape being the Head of Slytherin should have deterred you from liking him, but the houses were all the same to you, to be perfectly frank.
Over the years, though, the Potions Master started to condone you too, somehow, albeit very slowly. You were the only Gryffindor to never lose any house points or get detention with him, and you were a joy in the classroom, even for the brooding Professor – he'd never admit that, though.
You never talked back but had a lot to contribute to the lessons without coming off as a know-it-all (unlike Hermione, who you, truthfully, pitied a bit whenever Snape ran his mouth about her annoying eagerness).
It was a strange, unspoken coexistence between you and him, and you felt like a wolf in sheep's clothing when sitting in his classroom during breaks, brewing potions among others, the only tolerated Gryffindor between Slytherins. Sometimes, a quiet reading session in the library over messy notes and black coffee, forgotten and long gone cold, turned into him joining you at your table in silence when he had to do a quick research.
Snape rarely entered the library, Merlin forbid, but when his private book collection was lacking something and he had to wander the shelves, he had begun to look for you, unconsciously, and when he couldn't find you, he'd entrench himself back into his office again.
Your mutual acceptance grew into something cozy, almost, and it made you smile whenever he mumbled to himself over his books, your lips hidden behind the coffee cup you nipped at, work forgotten at the sharp crease between his drawn eyebrows. Your liking turned into some sort of silly affection for the gloomy Professor, and soon enough your lower stomach started to tingle whenever you saw him approach your table.
You managed to push these sneaky feelings aside, however, and finished your last year with extraordinary success and little distraction.
But alas, and due to a fatal mistake the Ministry made regarding the upcoming war, circumstances demanded that Dumbledore kept every student at Hogwarts after term ended, keeping you safe and sound, so you were killing the last two weeks doing off-curriculum stuff, much to everyone's dismay. Well, almost everyone's, in that case.
Your eyes focused back on the new teacher; his name scrawled in hurried, drawn-out letters on the blackboard – Newt Scamander.
Due to the additional time you were now spending at the old castle, Dumbledore had assigned your class to help Mr. Scamander feel more comfortable with his new occupation before he actually had to start teaching next year.
To be honest, it didn't come as a surprise to you, given he would be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor – a throughout cursed position, although the expectations weren't too high this time given he'd be following the footsteps of one particular Gilderoy Lockhardt.
He was currently hurrying around his desk to get his own textbook that was hidden underneath some parchment rolls, while telling you to open your books at page 62.
Boggarts, you read with a quiet sigh. It was a boring subject, hashed and rehashed by your former teacher Professor Lupin four years ago. You sank back into your chair, thankful for the darkness in the room so Mr. Scamander wouldn't see your sinking eyes, and pushed your book a few inches away from you.
The quiet chattering around you made you drowsy, and you sneaked another glance at your Professor. He was standing behind the projector, fiddling with the little buttons trying to get the next slide running, unsuccessfully; an almost annoyed, deep sigh ripped you out of your trance, and you straightened your back to get a better look at the play on the other side of the room – over your daydreaming during the awfully long waiting period, you'd almost forgotten that the Potions Master did indeed enter the classroom with Mr. Scamander, though he's kept himself in the background the last ten minutes.
Now, his slender, pale fingers worked the lazy projector in a few effective moves, the same fingers that expertly shredded boomslang skin a few days ago, and the familiar tingle crept back into your stomach.
Serving this lesson wouldn't be so boring after all.
The projector was finally up and running, Mr. Scamander was quietly thanking your Professor, and he nodded with a thin-lipped smile and made his way over to- you?
Your heart skipped a beat when his charcoal eyes met yours, and you briefly smiled. His cloak brushed over the stone floor as he took the seat beside you, and you thanked Merlin that you decided to sit at the very back of the room today. A hint of his scent wafted through the stuffy air, and the deep inhale you took almost swept you off your feet – you exchanged glances again, and this time, he threw you a look that told you he'd rather be anywhere else than babysitting this new teacher.
You bit your lip and averted your eyes, hiding your smile in vain, and you heard a quiet huff of grumbling laughter from the man beside you – you cursed yourself for the goosebumps when that delicious sound crawled all over your body.
You were about to sneak another glance at him, but the trembling, high-pitched voice of Mr. Scamander interrupted your childish yearning, and you swallowed hard.
Merlin, pull yourself together.
Your fingers ran through your locks, and you fixed your eyes on the man in front of the class. You could surely manage to survive the last few days without doing something stupid.
You couldn't.
The scratching of Snape's quill soon was the only thing you could concentrate on, luring your eyes almost forcefully over to his tall figure again – your usually curious mind stopped paying attention to the lesson and the meticulous running over a topic you've already memorized years ago. It seemed like today was one of the first times you've felt bored in class, and eventually, you allowed yourself a throughout bewitching distraction.
After a fleeting look over his profile, you narrowed your eyes down to his elegant hands. His pale knuckles were sporadically covered with some milky, shimmering dusk, shining every now and then in the flickering light of the projector when he moved his hand. Moonstone, you figured.
He was probably brewing some Draught of Peace for himself after this lesson, you thought, and bit back a smile.
Your eyes lingered a few moments longer on his fingers, observing, admiring; then you were acting on a sudden impulse.
You ripped a piece of parchment off your sheet, scribbled something on it, and before you could have stopped yourself to come back to your senses, you placed it on the edge of his desk.
Your heart beat a rapid rhythm against your ribcage when he took the note, but you didn't dare to meet his eyes and starred straight at the bright pictures the projector casted on the wall behind the teacher's desk, but they were just blurry, dancing lights for your anxious eyes.
You have awfully pretty hands, Sir.
A few, long seconds passed.
Then the note left slender fingertips and was placed back on your own desk.
Quit being cheeky and pay attention.
You giggled softly at his grumpy response, relieved he didn't drag you straight to detention at your flirting, and you heard him breathe out heavily beside you.
You picked up your quill.
It's hard to do when there are much more interesting things to think about.
His answer came immediately after the note left your table and made you snort quietly: He hissed an Incendio and the suggestive words were floating to the ground as small flakes of ash.
You smirked, shooting him a drawn eyebrow, beginning to feel a bit more confident, and he just glared at you, eyes dark like a starless night, and returned to his notes with a small shake of his head.
Your body relaxed back into the chair.
With your open book and empty parchment before you, you realized that your days as model student were almost over, allowing you to sniff at distractions you've easily put aside during your years at Hogwarts. Little distractions like Severus Snape, for example.
Cautiously, you lay down your quill and turned back to the poor, new teacher in front of the class. Mr. Scamander was still as anxiously agitated as before.
The lesson went on for forever, and although you were bored, you refrained yourself from writing another note to the Professor on your left. You felt his eyes on you from time to time, though, and it made your heart dance like crazy in your chest. Foolishly so.
When the bell saved you from another discussion between Hermione and Mr. Scamander, that poor dude, you almost groaned in relief.
Your eyes crossed charcoal ones when you stood up.
"Have a good day, Sir."
You dismissed him with a sweet smile when you turned around to leave, and he acknowledged your farewell with a brief quirk of his eyebrows, but his lips tugged up into the tiniest of cheeky smiles. That sly bastard, you thought, biting your lip. While it did turn you on, his icy, nonchalant demeanor, you still continued your way to the door with unusually weak knees – you were not prepared for that crush on your Professor to hit you full force now you've accepted to act on it.
His herby scent followed you to the door, but the weak, unsteady voice of Mr. Scamander made you stop.
"Miss- Professor Snape told me you are one of the most outstanding students of this term", Mr. Scamander started. You eyed him in surprise, not noticing he had made his way over to you, and your eyes flickered over to the man clad in black.
The Potions Master gave you a lopsided smirk before his cloak scurried out of the door, leaving you alone with the nervous teacher, your mouth gaping open, eyes widened, while you slowly processed the fact that thesternest, dissatisfied Professor praised you in front of his fellow staff.
"Miss-"
The pitchy voice yanked you out of your head, and you turned your attention back to Mr. Scamander – the warm, fuzzy feeling never left, though.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Sir. That is very kind of Professor Snape." You smiled at him, introducing yourself.
"What can I do for you?"
Your initial impression of Newt Scamander didn't change, he remained an anxious mess in private, but contrary to the dull lesson, your body filled with curious sparks again after his request.
Your Potions Master's blandishments about your person brought you a temporary occupation you never knew you'd enjoy this much, and you were spending the next hours in Mr. Scamander's tiny, crammed office next to the dungeon's classrooms, helping him structure his curriculum and plan further lessons. Every so often, he'd shily ask you to share some interpersonal information about the staff and the students, and when you left his office long after curfew, he seemed a tiny bit more relaxed.
You've agreed to meet him again after your lessons had ended tomorrow, and you bade your goodbyes and wished each other a good night.
On your way back to the Gryffindor quarters, you passed Snape's office. The orange glow that seeped through the gap under his door told you the Potions Master must be awake, still, and he wasn't on curfew duty. For a second, you hesitated, tempted to knock – but how would you excuse your visit at this hour of the night? You weren't in the mood to earn yourself your first detention for this foolishness, though technically, you weren't even a student anymore, and so you wandered off. If not Snape, then Filch would be more than happy to catch you up after hours, and it wasn't exactly a short walk from the dungeons to your quarters.
You stifled a yawn, only know noticing how wiped you were after your meeting with Mr. Scamander, and were about to turn around the next corner when a door behind you opened with a slight creaking. Fucking great, you thought, ready to bolt the last few feet into disappearance, but the all too familiar baritone shattered your hopes: "Look who I caught after curfew. Do come in, Miss."
Resigning yourself to your fate, you turned around with a bitten back sigh, meeting his inquiring, onyx eyes, and entered the office of your Potions Master. The eager flutter in your stomach was, of course, only due to your tiredness.
"Ironic that I meet you of all students, isn't it?", Snape rumbled as he closed the door behind you. The shiver that ran through you as the welcoming warmth of the fireplace engulfed you
only got worse when he passed you with a brush of his cloak.
"Sit down."
He gestured to the pine green loveseat near the fire (of course it was green), and you sank down on it, pleasantly surprised at the comfortable cushioning and the softness in his voice.
"Would you like a cup of tea? I've just put on a fresh kettle."
"Yes, thank you", you answered, turning your body towards your Professor. Tea did sound awfully nice, the chilly dampness of the dungeons seeped through your clothes already.
"Don't get me wrong, Sir, I really appreciate your kindness, but I've expected a detention, not a cup of tea."
His charcoal locks took on an almost blueish glimmer, glowing in the flickering light of the fire. He hummed deeply, then made his way over to you with two steaming cups of tea in his pale hands.
You sniffed. Through his leathery, herby scent flew the minty-lemony hint of the tea, but it almost vanished when Snape sat down beside you. You wondered if he made his own perfume.
"Albeit I'm made the dungeon bat, I would be a right arse to punish one of my brightest students for something I practically personally assigned them to do", Snape chuckled and sipped on his tea, his eyes not leaving you. Their onyx color seemed brighter than usual.
"Well", you said, picking up the other cup, and shot him a cheeky smile.
"Although I agree with you, I would happily take on detention now that I have heard you curse, Professor."
The Potions Master quirked his eyebrow as if you've just given him an (awfully stupid) idea, but you quickly raised your free hand and backtracked with a laugh, almost choking on your tea: "You know what, never mind, Sir."
He just looked at you, curious and questing.
The air around you somehow changed, settled heavily on your shoulders and slowed down your breathing, and the delicate sparkling in your stomach grew under his dark, vigilant, ever-piercing eyes.
The crackling fire drowned the sound of your suddenly fiercely pounding heart, throbbing hard in your ears, and you swallowed softly and repeated, your voice just a little above a whisper: "Never mind."
If you wanted to look at it that way, the evening in his office was not necessarily different from the shared afternoons in the library, apart from the conversation, of course.
You felt the familiar calmness, as strange as it was, creep back in the longer you sat with him, and the initial restrained small talk turned into a fruitful chat. It surprised you how much of a pleasant, interested conversationalist your Potion's Professor turned out to be, and something inside of you mourned the many opportunities you had missed with remaining silent during your library sessions.
Over the course of the night, you've eased back into the emerald pillows, snuggled into a woolen, earthy scented blanket with your legs crossed under you, and your foot nudged his thigh every so often – by accident, of course.
Meanwhile, Professor Snape remained his stoic self. Only the softening crease between his eyebrows told you that he was, in fact, relaxed.
Snape didn't ask many questions. He let you do the talking, which, to be honest, made you nervous at first, but the way he softly tilted his head and let his unusually gentle eyes rest on your face, you felt at home at this strange place, with this strange man.
He looked genuinely curious, and it made your heart skip with affection. Of course, you thanked him for his praise (which he dismissed with a wave of his hand), told him about your afternoon with the new, antsy Professor ("He reminds me an awful lot of Professor Quirrell", you said pensively, and the Potions Master snorted at your comment, and it made you all dizzy and warm inside) and when you've began to grow quieter, he refilled your cup and asked you about your plans for the future.
"Of course, you would ask that", you huffed. Your academic success and eagerness to learn would make it easy for you to pursue the profession of your dreams, sure, but even they did not save you from the nervous restlessness about life "out there".
Despite your anguish, his question filled you with warmth and intimacy. From hearsay, you knew that Snape had these future talks with Slytherin students only, and he was rather compelled during it. It was his duty as Head of the house, though, just like Professor McGonagall invited you to a chat in her office over biscuits and tea.
These talks weren't only limited to the Heads, in fact, you had a lot of teachers ask you about your "with no doubt bright future", as Professor Lockhart labelled it with a wink, obviously hinting at his own tremendous fame. You knew that you wouldn't miss him too terribly when you were gone.
So it pleasantly surprised you that the cold, distant man wanted to know you, a Gryffindor at that, at his own free will. You couldn't help but felt stupidly special.
By the time you fell asleep on his couch, cuddled up in his blanket, the fire had died down and your mouth was dry from all the thinking out loud. You've told him about your inclination towards pursuing Quidditch (you caught him rolling his eyes at that, and he apologized drily, half-heartedly, but with a smirk), your secret dream of running a cozy little book café (you could have sworn his features had softened at this, but he'd recovered in a flash) and your newfound curiosity for teaching, inspired by your day with Mr. Scamander.
During your little games of make-believe, your foot had found its way under his thigh, shily, seemingly unnoticed, but oh, the increasing brushes of his fingertips along your shin when he shifted his body, the play of your eyes that got more suggestive the later the evening became, the tingle in your lower stomach when his deep voice penetrated your body, when his glance flickered down to your lips, the growing, undeniable attraction between you – if you wouldn't have been so incredibly tired, you couldn't have promised how much longer you could have focused on the harmless chit-chat instead of the unbelievably handsome, seductive, forbidden man next to you.
By the time you had drifted off to sleep, shrouded by smokey, herby leather, you were a goner.
The delicate smell of freshly brewed coffee woke you from your slumber. Sunlight seeped through the enchanted dungeon windows, casting a golden glow across the office and on your face. It took you a few minutes to wake up and remember, and you did with a fuzzy feeling filling your body.
On the table beside your coffee cup (charmed to stay hot, thank Merlin), you found a note. The parchment was brittle in your hands, and you smiled as your fingertips traced the name following the words.
You quickly emptied your cup, folded the blanket, and quietly made your way to your chambers, the ridiculous smile on your lips never ceasing.
You returned to Mr. Scamander's classroom later that day. Your class was supposed to learn about Dementors which would have been an exciting topic if it wasn't already known to you, just like the one before.
To your surprise, the desk beside the one you've occupied yesterday was already taken by the Potions Master. You bit back the grin at the sight of his black cloak (rather unsuccessful).
"Good morning, Professor", you chirped as you sat down, and when you locked eyes, his charcoal ones were as dark as ever. His lips, however, curved into a gentle smile.
"Good morning", he rasped, and Merlin, one might think you'd became accustomed to his exceptional voice after all this time, yet the shudder that ran down your spine oh so deliciously told you otherwise.
You were about to speak as Mr. Scamander started the lesson with his same old, pitchy voice, and you masked your attempt at approaching with a faked cough. Snape, however, seemed rather amused at your reddening cheeks, putting you on the spot, and so you complied with dignity and whispered: "Thanks for the coffee. Really needed that."
His eyes flashed with something before he answered: "You were awfully tired last night."
Somehow, his hushed voice sounded even sexier, lacing his words with an innuendo to everyone who was unlucky to listen, and you trembled as a white-hot pang of arousal shot through you. You managed to smile weakly at him and turned to the other teacher, but you caught his smirk. He knew.
The lesson went by without another distraction, although your hands remained sweaty, and your thighs pressed together more often than you'd liked to admit at the overwhelmingly dominant presence of the man beside you. You were almost relieved when the bell rang.
By the time you had packed your books into your bag, Snape was already leaving without another word, and the subtle twinge of unplaceable jealousy nipped at your gut. With a silent sigh, you scooched onto your desk and waited for Mr. Scamander. He was talking to some Ravenclaw girls and looked rather uncomfortable at their bashful giggling. Poor bloke, you thought, and sent him a sympathetic smile.
Knowing it would take a while for him to get rid of them (and you really didn't want to cross ways with these girls), you took out your book when a folded piece of parchment trundled to the floor.
You were never one for silly note passing in class, but the secretive charm of it began to dawn on you now. You opened the little note with trembling hands and could only just hold back a happy giggle at the words in black ink.
If you'd like some decision guidance, stop by my office after your afternoon program with Quirrell.
S.S.
Albeit it was great fun to assist Mr. Scamander, he couldn't release you soon enough, and you were almost skittering down the stony, slippery hallway when he finally did.
The Potion's Master opened the wooden door to his office with a pleased expression on his face, and you almost thought he was as delighted to spend another shared evening as you. Almost, because while he looked enthralled to see you, your face was glowing with enthusiastic zest.
"Good evening", he hummed, curious charcoal darting over your face, and stepped aside to let you enter the warm island of tranquility that was his office.
"Tea?", he asked in his low, rumbling voice, and cocked his head. Your insides melted away like ice in the sunshine.
"Please", you said, and flopped down onto his sofa.
You woke up to the same smell of coffee and the sun tickling your nose, and you buried your head into the pillow. The cushion swallowed your little huffs of joy.
You nearly went past your classroom on your way to the dungeons, so deep in thoughts you wouldn't even have recognized your own father if he had passed you.
Your Professor, although still rather quiet and private, not very inclined to talk about such a pathetic matter as himself, had opened up about his own years in Hogwarts last night, and you hung on his every word (glued to his lips if you may, alas, not literally), but the main focus of your current stray thoughts were touches and inklings that had become bolder, fingertips that stroked your legs almost intentionally, lustful eyes growing darker, voices huskier – but you fell asleep before one of you could have gathered up the courage to take the final step.
Looking back now, in the cruel, exposing light of the day, your stomach fluttered anxiously. The game you played was thrilling, there was no doubt in that, but your sober mind reminded you of your positions that couldn't have been more unfortunate. Although you technically were a former student now, being asked (or rather forced) to stay at Hogwarts a little longer also maintained the power imbalance between you and the Potion's Master.
It made you shudder with longing and suspense at the same time.
You sat down at your unofficially designated desk when you finally made the right turn to your classroom, and stretched yourself with a yawn, mewling like a lazy cat.
"Tired?", the familiar baritone muttered into your ear, and you turned around and grinned at him. He quirked his brow, then took the seat beside you and spread out his things on the table before him while wearing a tiny, sly smile on his lips.
"Backpain", you answered, and, just to mess with him because in a very strange way, it turned you on, groaned again.
"I'm not made to sleep on something other than a bed twice in a row."
"Shame", he responded, a mischievous glitter in his eyes. "The youth is no longer what they used to be."
You huffed out a playful gasp. "I am deeply hurt, Sir."
Your Potions Master chuckled quietly, a rumble that carved your core into one, begging fire, and if you hadn't been in a crowded classroom, you would have pounced on him right this very second, morals be damned.
But you weren't alone, and Professor Snape wasn't a man interested in other people, so you had to swallow your arousal and play it by ear – you couldn't turn inside out after just two whole days of suddenly being head over heels for your teacher, thank you very much.
Newt Scamander scurried to the front of the classroom and tried to begin his lesson, diverting your indecency to today's topic: The Patronus Charm. Goddamn it.
A side glance to the other, way more seasoned and confident Professor in the room painted your face with surprise, though; judging by the way his chest was still turned towards you and his face was open and teasingly alert, he seemed to enjoy your banter just as much, much more than being the assigned, helpful patron for the struggling novice, and you considered giving in for a breath before you leaned towards him.
"Men are not what they used to be", you sighed quietly in return, surrendering.
Snape's curved lips pressed together, whether out of amusement or indignation you could not say, yet your increased time together taught you better so you threw him another subtle wink he acknowledged with – a raise of his brow, of course.
For most people, going mute overnight would be a real shitshow, but you were almost sure the grim Professor Snape would endure it without batting an eyelid, for he knew how to communicate solely through a single arch of his eyebrow.
The thought entertained you thoroughly for a few seconds, the guilt of making fun of his demeanor rather tenuous, but finally nagged at you enough to start shifting your attention back to Mr. Scamander babbling on, and you had to admit with pride that he seemed a bit more practiced, albeit merely noticeable, and without another comment from the Potions Master, you actually followed the rest of his lesson.
After you've parted ways with both Professors, one sooner than the other, you strolled through the damp corridors that were painted golden by the dwindling evening sun, back to your quarters. During your assistant hours with Mr. Scamander, you'd decided to part from the initial plan to visit the other dungeon resident tonight, because for one you were barely holding yourself up on your feet, and further, although you really wanted to dwell some more on the Potions Master's sharp, prudent insights, your crush on him began to give you a vicious headache.
You felt unsure.
Unsure because Snape never showed his students more sympathy than he would a pumpkin, unsure because you knew he didn't do friends, more precisely romantic entanglements – especially not with a dunderhead, as he liked to call his disciples.
Even if you were inexperienced (which you were not because although you were focused on schoolwork, you did have some flings here and there), you would have understood the severity of this amorous problem.
And the severity of your backpain, because hell, sleeping on an albeit cushiony loveseat didn't save you when you were laying there folded like a damaged mannequin.
So, you didn't stop on your way through the dungeons to knock on his office, but you wouldn't have needed to anyway because miraculously, or rather fatefully? you bumped into a hard and slender body when you went for the stairs.
The fresh, herby scent that seemed implanted in his skin rattled you so thoroughly that his deep baritone invitation for tea indeed sounded like heaven on earth, and you found yourself back on his sofa instead in your bed, your tired voice of reason lost between the clammy stones of the dungeons.
By the time the teapot was emptied, you had managed to keep Snape listening to your Quidditch theories. He wasn't delighted at first, but with some help of your best puppy eyes (and maybe some cleavage and innocent touching), he responded to your question why he hated Quidditch so much with a brief, gruff story about Harry Potter's father who was an awful bully – and a pretty damn successful Quidditch player too, unfortunately.
The resentment seemed reasonable, and you shared the dislike of the Potter family, Harry being an annoying dimwit in your eyes and not at all the shining star he was made out to be.
When speaking about Potter, Snape was probably the most passionate you had ever seen during your years at Hogwarts, and the sheer absurdity of it made you laugh outright – a sound you've quickly regretted when Snape's narrowed, charcoal eyes targeted you like a predator would its prey.
You've never moved this fast in your life when he pounced on you.
The attempt to escape led you into his bedroom at last, giggling, gasping, your eyes darting around frenetically, trying to find a spot to hide, and you were about to speed to the wooden wardrobe as surprisingly strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you backwards.
It knocked the air out of your lungs, and you felt your frantic heartbeat loud in your ears and in your lower stomach, too, when a hard chest pressed you against the dark wood.
Heavy puffs of air spilled down your neck as warm, soft lips bumped against your ear, the shiver that rippled through your body teasing another, quieter gasp from your own lips, and your hands fell helplessly on top of his large, pale ones that held you in place.
Leather and wood oil clouded your senses, mingled with the same, subtle scent of the earl gray you've been drinking, a combination so sinful you would have dropped to your knees if the Potions Master would've released you.
"We are in a rather playful mood tonight, hm?", he rasped, nose sweeping along your temple, strands of inky hair tickling your cheek, but you were anything but laughing, no. The muttered words fell from his lips like molten caramel and dripped all over you like sticky-sweet forbiddance.
The buttons of his frock coat jabbed into your back, a deliciously brash emphasis that he was indeed all around you, and all the forbidden thoughts came back, drowning you in prickling, hot drops of need.
You didn't dare to press your body against him, to feel if you were right about his attraction towards you, too, but the tiny specks of uncertainty froze you into a trembling bundle of submission.
Would he dare to give in, to indulge in your body that was already yearning for him? His breath was calmer now, the air in his bedroom still charged with sexual tension, with want, need – should you leave it to him to make the ultimate decision?
His scent was still hugging you like a well-loved coat, and his arms slackened and rested around your hips, black-clad arms over your white blouse.
You swallowed softly, tentatively, little warm puffs of air girdled you in wispy intimacy – it was frightfully intimate to share your breath with someone, but you've felt utterly calm in this very moment. Safe.
His chest pushed against your smaller frame when he inhaled a last time before his crossed hands untangled themselves, falling to his sides again, and all at once, you felt dreadfully alone.
You slowly turned around.
If you had tilted your head up, your nose would have brushed his, just like your lips would have whispered a kiss along the edge of his mouth. He gently grabbed your chin, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip, about to do just that, you hoped, wished – then he took a step backwards.
"It's late. You should go to sleep", he whispered softly, and smiled. He had made the decision right as those words passed his lips, and albeit you were disappointed, you nodded, surrendering yourself to his hands – oh, those hands. Those fucking hands.
It was needless to say that you didn't go to your quarters that night.
Third time should be a charm, was your first, lazy thought when it was the sun tickling you awake instead of the usual cozy coffee scent you immediately craved.
What the fuck happened last night?, was your second.
Panic and anxiety rose faster than incoming high tides in your body when you opened your eyes and were in fact neither in your bedroom nor in his office, but in a private bedding you really, really shouldn't be in.
On the other side, though... your consciousness wavered, and your concerns began to fade away at the sublime comfort of his bed, cast in soft glimmers of sunlight, and the soothing steadiness of deep breathing, a warm body entangled with yours – it would have been stupid, yes, absolutely outrageous to feel anything but bliss in this very moment, you chided yourself. You were just lying in a bed, after all.
The muscles in your back let go of their foolish tension, and you dared to scoot back, your back pressed against his chest, so warm, so fitting, your legs molding against his, so very right your lips escaped a sleepy sigh in contentment. You closed your eyes again, ready to drift off, feeling so utterly at peace being held by muscular, pale arms.
It must have been early morning, maybe six o'clock or so when you woke up again with a smoldering fire in your core. Writhing with tired rapture, your body lazily basked in the mellow glow of a forgotten dream that must have set your nerves ablaze, and you rolled to your side with a yawn when someone, him, groaned behind you, and you felt a stiffness brushing against your ass.
The way you bonded with the Potions Master over silent studies and tea-infused chats held a platonic intimacy you'd never dreamt of, but your heated embrace, though still in the clutches of sleepy abandon, was a new profound ardency, somehow so carnal and deep that you couldn't help but grind your ass against his erection with white-hot desire – his responding, throaty moan lightened a beacon in your core that screamed Touch me! Please me!, and almost made you sob out a whine in unexpected want.
His lips pressed into your hair, the staccato breathing hot and damp on your skin. One arm snaked around your waist possessively, pulling you closer, flush, the thin layers of both of your clothes you've fallen asleep in suddenly too much, too warm – you wanted, no, needed his skin on yours, needed to burry your nose in his hair, in the crook of his neck to breathe the hypnotizing scent of him in, needed to feel his slender fingers trailing a path of goosebumps along your thighs-
Your hips jerked back softly again, and his clothed cock brushed along the crease of your ass; his free hand briefly slid between your bodies, and then your breath trembled when you felt his warm, naked erection over the fabric of your skirt.
His biceps flexed, arm muscles rippling under his black shirt, and he pushed his body against yours with a passion; if he had been holding back before, he surrendered to his primal instincts at this very moment and pressed his hardness fervently into your supple flesh.
A hungry moan slipped out of you and cut through the quiet morning air as his greedy hand found the hem of your skirt and bunched it up around your hips, and both of you choked out a groan when his cock finally slid against your bare skin.
Your pussy pulsed in a greedy rhythm as his thumb caught onto your thong, accidentally sliding the lace against your clit when his hand scurried down to your hip to push his fingers firmly into your flesh, coaxing another raw moan out of you at the delicious friction.
Neither of you knew what came over you, the heat of the moment burning down every inch of prudence as you were pushing your bare ass against your Professor's cock, every fiber of your being wanting to be claimed, ruined in the most feral, bestial way possible by your pensive, unswerving Potions Master.
His fingertips painted a bruising picture on your skin as he held you close to grind against your naked flesh, quiet, throaty growls of pleasure slipping over his parted lips, and you wished for nothing more than for him to slide your thong aside and fuck you.
Your hard nipples rubbed against your blouse, desperate for his thumb to brush over them just like your gasping mouth wanted his lips.
You wanted to whimper his name, but you didn't dare, afraid a word would wake you from this passionate dream, when you were so close to guide him inside of you, spreading your legs and begging him to fuck you until you couldn't remember your own name.
But just as fate made you run into him yesterday when you didn't plan to, fate made you hungry for each other on a fucking school's morning, of course.
So, one way or another, your dream come true knocked you out of the skies with a bang when a harsh knock rattled you thoroughly into soberness.
A muffled "Morning" cut through the door, you heard footsteps, then silence.
You lay frozen under the cover, skin to skin, not daring to breathe as the dawn of realization came down on you. You didn't really- but you both wanted too, right? Did you regret it? Was he regretting it?
The silence was tense, uncomfortable, and yet somehow funny in a morbid kind of way, still very much entangled in your heated embrace.
You took a breath and closed your eyes, counted to three – very slowly – and turned around, even if it was a bit of work in your tangle of (naked) limbs, bracing yourself before you opened your eyes.
The Potions Master was easily one of the most attractive man you'd ever seen, but when his eyes were blazing with lust, his lips wet and parted, hair disheveled from sleep and passion like now, he was a god among humans. Your core burst with molten lava at the sight.
In hindsight, you should have just kissed him in that moment, lessons and decency be damned, and you considered it very carefully, but you didn't. You gave him a bashful smile, let your eyes roam over his handsome face a few heartbeats longer, and got up and left.
The next few days were almost the same as before. You endured boring lessons that got partially more interesting, a little at a time, then you spent hours in Mr. Scamander's office to assist him although you really exhausted your means to stay longer than necessary, passed Snape's office on your way back to your quarters and stayed over for tea more times than not – but you avoided the elephant in the room each time you'd thrown him a cheeky smile during the lesson or accidentally brushed his knees with your fingertips. The tension grew, it was almost unbearable at times, but there wasn't another accident.
You behaved. Until your last official day at Hogwarts.
Of course, Mr. Scamander, given the submissive man he was, allowed you to take the day off as his assistant to celebrate the end of your time at Hogwarts.
The Ministry had declared safety again, and every student was allowed to leave the school until the beginning of next term – Hogwarts, however, remained open for those who felt safest there, and you decided to stay a bit longer and explore the possibilities of pursuing a career as teacher, or teacher assistant at least.
Mr. Scamander was more than relieved to hear you'd stay and help him, and it pleased you, but you knew your flashy career talk was the minor matter.
It was a mild evening when you stumbled back inside the castle, one of the last beautiful days before the brutal cold of late autumn relentlessly covered the land in snow and ice, and you'd celebrated your graduation (and deafened the certainty that peace would not last much longer in the wizarding world) with too much alcohol at the Great Lake.
You knew a certain Potions Professor would stay at the castle, too, yet you had an urge to see him tonight you weren't able shake off even if you'd tried to.
The way down to the dungeons were longer than you remembered, and it could have been possible for Snape to not be in his office for it wasn't that late in the evening, but when you reached the familiar wooden door and the welcoming glow of the fireplace sept throw the door gap, you felt relief wash over you.
You opened the door without knocking, suddenly very eager to see him, drunk on sweet wine and promises, and he raised his head from the book he'd been reading, nursing his own tumbler of whiskey.
"Hi", you breathed with a smile that could have turned heads, and Snape forgot your indecency the second you tripped over your own feet and fell on top of him, tangled in each other all over again.
Your giggle made him smile too, a soft tugging at the corners of his mouth, and when you beamed at him with messy hair and glowing eyes, most of your red lipstick probably sticking to some bottle, and slung your arms around his neck, the same notion overcame him that swept you off your feet after the first night of teas and talks.
He knew he was a goner, too.
"Dance with me, Professor Snape", you requested, a slight, charming slur in your voice, but from the way your eyes never wavered from his own, you let him know that you were consenting, that you did since the first exchange of little notes, and he nodded, the smile still plastered on his face, and pulled you into a swift embrace.
You danced for forever, caressing each other with slow hands and wandering, sweeping mouths to the rhythm of your heartbeat, so you thought, although the faint music of the night lingered in the air, too.
Your eyes met after a long time of just holding each other, swaying and hoping, and you parted your lips to breathe, his eyes luminous charcoal, and his own lips met yours halfway.
Eventually, you ended up falling onto the loveseat, mouths and tongues melted into each other in a slow waltz that felt like coming home, and you pressed him against the cushions right where it all started.
His hands run through your open locks, feeling the softness that was your blushing cheeks under his fingertips and the sensual rub of your tongue against his own.
Your lips tasted like tangy grapes under his biting caress, and your silvery whines were sweeter than the softest of wines.
His hands found their place on your hips, the silk of your dress made your body move like billowing temptation having him wanting, worshipping at your feet.
"Love me", you whispered against his lips, and your wide, dreamy eyes had him succumb to the innocent temptation that was your body.
"Make love to me", you whispered again, then sealed your plea with a bruising kiss of ardent devotion that elicited a deep, wanton moan from the depth of his lungs, and he used his hands that drew silent prayers on your hips to dispose of your sage dress, dispose of the imitation waves that fell pale against the sinful rippling of your naked body lolling on his lap.
"You're an exquisite piece of art", he said, in awe of the woman that arched her back in lush abandon, and you smiled and placed a hand on his cheek.
"Be the painter, then", you breathed, and pressed your lips on his again. His hands fell back on your exposed skin with a sigh that spilled over your lazy tongues, and his finger trailed over your body until he was sure to have touched every single, delectable inch of you before they stopped as a gentle caress on your breasts.
The dungeon air was still chilly despite the heat of the fire, but you were burning with hunger and trembling under his touch. His fingertips stroked the delicate skin under your breasts and around your nipples in maddening circles, and when he finally brushed over your hard nipples, you cried out in delirious gratification.
"Look at you", Snape whispered, thumbing and rolling your nipples between his fingers until he was sure you were about to come from one caress of your clit alone. Your whimpers and moans filled the air, and you were high-strung with white-hot arousal, ready to burst, but when his lips encased your left nipple in a wet, biting kiss, you came on his black trousers with a sob that rippled through your entire body.
He held you as your soul dipped into honey-thick pleasure, watching your face the whole time during your ascent and descent of your lust, and when you floated down again, with glazed eyes and a frown adorning your face, he kissed you again and again until he had no more air left to breathe.
You once thought he was a god, but he shed light upon himself as you got lost in his dark, amber-glowing eyes. He was as much of a god as you were, yet he worshipped you with all his might, and understanding this strung something inside of you.
Your eyes were unbreakably tied to his when your hands smoothed over his buttoned chest. His breathing was hard, heavy, and it trembled as you opened his trousers, eye contact still there, still unbroken.
His body shuddered when you touched him for the first time, and albeit you've felt him before, his hard, velvety cock was a marvel to your touch. Your mouth dragged over his bottom lip, gaze still locked, your hand caressed his hardness until it was almost impossible for him to keep his eyes open any longer, and then – you moaned into each other's mouth when you sunk down on his cock, throaty and raspy and yes, finally.
His hands dug into the skin of your hips as you rode him slowly, savoring this feeling of prickling intimacy you'd craved over your cups of tea all these evenings, with your eyes locked and your lips parted.
Your Potions Master guided the deep rising and falling of your body with his strong hands, with his skillful, pale, elegant hands, the hands that drove you out of your mind. You moaned lowly, your head dropped, and your forehead rested against his, strands of inky hair sticking to your brows, eyes still so profoundly connected you felt the stroking of his cock countless times deeper inside your scorching self.
"That's it", he growled quietly, frowning in lust and abandon, and a honeyed sob poured out of your lungs when he fucked you hard, devotion in his thrusts, and you felt yourself on the tightrope again.
The crease between his brows became more distinctive, his eyes that flickered amber turned into a dead black see, his heavy cock sunk in and out of your wanton body in an abundant lope.
When you fell from the rope with a long, drawn-out moan, soaring, falling, you didn't know where he began and you ended.
You were melted into one embrace until both of you fell asleep, entangled like lovers, slender, talented fingers interlaced with yours, and on the coffee table beside the loveseat were two used cups, one with a small crack in the porcelain and some lipstick marks along the rim from the one you wore two days ago when you last visited your Potions Master.
The cold, remaining tea in these cups would be washed away tomorrow and replaced by fresh, hot coffee you would drink together because you simply felt like it, and you would lay your head on his lap and smile instead of disguising little, bashful touches as accidents, and you would never drink tea again because it felt like a bad metaphor for unspoken confessions – besides, both of you never really liked tea anyway.