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Hermione's back hit the cold of the corridor wall, palms pressed flat against the stone, willing them to stop their trembling. Her NEWTs were meant to be simple, easy. It was years of study condensed into a few hours of demonstrating what she knew by heart; anyone would feel the strain. But truthfully, they had been easy, child's-play really, until she'd unrolled that damned examination notice and read his blasted name that sat haughtily under "Observing Faculty". The one that made her heart rattle in the cage of her ribs, and sent warmth coiling between her legs.
Severus Snape.
Her sweaty palms slicked the heavy parchment until the ink bled onto her skin. She thunked her head against the wall and shut her eyes, fighting the image already forming: him in the classroom below, gliding between desks, robes billowing in his wake. Hair dark as ink loose against his collar, rigid nose, obsidian eyes that made his stare feel like having your soul read.
Good Godric. You're Hermione Granger, get it together.
She shook out her nerves and pushed open the door.
As expected, he was already there. Both hands gripped the dark oak desk, his body curved over a scroll spread flat beneath him. She watched the tendons in his hand tighten as he traced a finger along the text, while the dungeon's torchlight carved the sharp edge of his jaw from below. Gods, what she wouldn't give to be that piece of parchment, pinned under his gaze, his attention roaming the length of her…unhurried…inch by exquisite inch—
"Miss Granger, you're early."
She jolted at the low timbre of his voice, though he stayed fixed on the parchment.
"Y-yes, I figured you'd be here and wouldn't mind if I arrived early to set up my materials before my exam begins. I know it's not technically part of the time limit, and I wanted to prepare thoroughly. It seemed prudent."
He still hadn't looked up from the scroll. "Are you quite finished rambling, or shall I send you to your dormitory to compose yourself?"
Bastard.
"No—wait, sorry I mean yes, I'm finished. I'm ready…Sir."
She watched his nostrils flare on a deep exhale. A reaction like that made it nearly impossible to control herself.
If she were being honest, the past year had been a long game of small victories like this. Tiny cracks in his austere facade. Like the library table, where she'd leaned across farther than necessary, feeling the cool air brush the skin just below her arse. He'd been speaking to Madame Pince when she heard him stammer and lose his train of thought entirely. Or the sugar quill incident, where she let the candied tip trace across her bottom lip, then pressed the flat of her tongue, licking oh so slowly, glancing across the Great Hall to find him. It took about three seconds for him to flee from the High Table, clenching and unclenching his fists turning just once to meet her eye before vanishing behind the doors. She'd savored that for weeks.
Was she doing it on purpose? Abso-fucking-lutely.
How could she not? He may have been twelve years her senior, but he still managed to get under her skin without trying. Not in the way he used to, back when she was fifteen and his student, and his barbs actually stung. No, now it was something hungrier, an ache that gnawed straight through her self-preservation. He'd say something so dry and cutting, she'd have to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling like a fool, and then hate herself for it the entire walk to Gryffindor tower.
"Miss Granger, do I need to repeat myself or shall we just forfeit this NEWT altogether?"
Shit. She didn't hear a damn thing he'd said, but asking him to repeat himself would only make him angrier. Not that anger from him was much of a deterrent these days. If anything, her mind wondered exactly how far she'd need to push before his control snapped.
"Sorry, Sir…I'm listening. Promise." She made her voice cloying, honeyed, and tilted her chin just so. She knew from this angle her eyes would appear wide an innocent.
Let him imagine what she could look like on her knees.
His eyes narrowed, tension threading through his jaw as he ground his molars. Was it disdain or arousal? She couldn't tell. Maybe both. She could work with both.
"The Examination Observation Orb," he nodded toward the small glass sphere hovering above her empty cauldron, "will monitor the full brewing period and send a copy to the Board once completed. You will have two hours to describe the potion, its purpose, and narrate your brewing process aloud, in full and without prompting."
He paused, his focus turned on her for a fraction too long, causing her thighs to clench and ease the pressure gathering in her core.
He didn't seem to notice, which was both a blessing and a curse, and continued: "As the Board cannot be present to observe a restricted brew, I will remain in the room to ensure the exam proceeds without…incident."
On the word 'incident', he looked from her face, tracing downward, slow enough that she felt the tingling presence of his gaze draw a line from her collarbone to the hem of her skirt. They stopped there, at the inch of thigh she wasn't supposed to show. The pleats of her skirt hiked to a height that asked: "Don't you want to see what else I'm hiding?"
He brought his eyes back to hers, and for a moment, the sole evidence she'd unsettled him was one slow, deliberate swallow.
"Understood, Professor," she replied, fairly proud at how level it came out, despite the wetness pooling between her thighs.
"Very well. Begin when you're ready, Miss Granger."
She turned on her heel, the sharp click of her Mary Janes echoing loudly in the dungeon's silence. The sound seemed to hang in the damp air between them until her feet faltered. The vision before her caused her palms to break into another sweat. The weight of his stare pressing into her back.
"Problem?"
"Uh—oh, um, no, no problem." She murmured and forced her feet forward, though they felt encased in concrete.
The station before her was completely set. He'd laid out every ingredient, left to right, in precise brewing order. Exactly the way she would have set them herself if he hadn't distracted her earlier with his biteable forearms.
This might be cheating. Though, technically she hadn't touched a single ingredient vial yet, or done anything the Orb could flag as such. There was a version of this exact scenario in another universe where she'd make a fuss about impartiality and fair examination conditions. But in this one, she weighed the gift. This could be a kindness, plain and simple, and entirely unlike him. The kind of thing he'd deny until his last breath if she ever asked outright.
Was she willing to overlook a potential violation of exam conduct for a small ounce of his affection?
Obviously.
She'd have done more for less and wasn't about to pretend otherwise.
She lit the burner and cleared her throat.
"The Desiderium Draught," she recited, "is a restricted-classification potion brewed in a single continuous stage." Her voice came out quick and precise, as clinical as a Healer's diagnosis. Not a syllable betraying the she'd been ogling his charcoal trousers as he rose from behind his desk, the worn fabric pulling across the muscle of his thighs. Not a single inch of fabric went unstrained.
She continued. "A common misconception is that it operates in the same vein as Amortentia." She let her voice drop half an octave, something she'd learned from watching him. "Incorrect. Amortentia produces infatuation and binds that effect exclusively to scent." Her fingers danced through the ingredients, light and teasing, before settling on the longest glass vial holding the Blushroot grass. "The Desiderium is far more nuanced." She gripped it, stroking the glass from base to tip, giving a slight twist at the end. "The effects are entirely dependent on how the potion is taken."
She swore she heard a low groan from the front of the classroom, but when she looked up she found only a dark curtain of hair hiding his face, his white-knuckled grip on the tome in his lap. As if he hadn't made a sound.
Well. That won't fucking do.
"If the potion touches your skin," she said, her free hand sliding down her throat, pausing where her pulse fluttered against her fingertips, then tracing the ridge of her collarbone, "you experience immediate, heightened arousal. Not unlike an aphrodisiac." She waited, watching for the telltale flicker of his eyes, but nothing.
"The body responds in kind," her hand drifted lower, past the button straining at her chest, "making certain…adjustments, to ease the pursuit of their affections. Though the person remains entirely in control of their faculties."
He hadn't lifted his head, but also hadn't turned a page in minutes.
"However, if consumed," she went on, reckless now, her own skin burning beneath her robes, "the person experiences hallucinations of their own deepest desires." She ran her tongue across her lower lip, gaze dropping to his mouth, held tight with tension. "So seamless, they often forget what's real."
His head rose slowly, as if pulled against his will. Her heart stumbled, then raced, as pools of black found her across the room. She leaned her weight onto the desk, lacing her fingers beneath her chin. "Euphoria in its purest form."
The leather of his book creaked in the silence, and for one second neither moved. Then her composure cracked — nose scrunching, a smirk tugging at her mouth. She straightened and turned her back to the cauldron, feigning innocence. But she knew. And he knew she knew.
"Now, the brewing." She began measuring ingredients, narrating each ratio in her examination voice.
The hour that followed dissolved into motion she could perform blindfolded: clockwise stirs, temperature checks, the precise crush of dried redthorn between her palms. Steam rose from her cauldron, settling on her skin in a fine, clinging mist. She dragged two fingers under her collar and loosened the red and gold tie at her throat, though it did little good.
Somewhere between one stir and the next, her hands developed their own little agenda. One gathered the worst of her frizz into one fist; the other yanked her tie free, twisting it around the mess of curls to lift them off her neck. The dungeon air cooled her skin for exactly as long as it took the steam to find her again.
She shrugged her robes from her shoulders and let them pool onto the stool behind her. Then undid the top button of her blouse, and a second, telling herself that this was simply thermodynamics and nothing more perverse than that.
But reaching for the moonstone powder brought the prickle of his attention like a physical touch, gooseflesh climbing both arms.
Her gaze lifted, a moth drawn to the flame of his tension. Her mouth went dry, the words she'd been about to recite evaporating on her tongue.
The tome sat spine-up on his desk, splayed open where he'd abandoned it without care. One hand desperately clutched the arm of his chair; the other vanished below the desk's edge, lost in the shadow. Between the open collar of his robes, his chest moved in quick, shallow pulls, a bead of sweat forming at his brow.
What a tease.
She forced her eyes back to her work. The potion shifted to the color of rosewater, moonstone powder shimmering across its surface in a glittering film. It was, by a completely objective measure, absolute perfection. Fifteen minutes of stirring remained, then thirty where the cauldron could not be touched. If she could simply endure, she would walk out with the mark she'd worked years to earn.
But fuck, she wasn't sure she could.
Her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt, the ache between her legs a low thrum that drowned out the cauldron's simmer. Clockwise, counterclockwise, the rhythm of her stirring became mechanical while her body begged: Touch me, use me, take what you want, it's already yours.
Before long, the final step of the brew lay before her.
She was so close to finishing this NEWT, so close to graduating, and yet so damned close to doing something that would see her expelled instead.
Which was probably why she let caution win over and settled for simply appraising him one last time.
He hadn't moved. The hand beneath his desk remained hidden, and she couldn't help but note the evidence of his restraint: the rigid set of his shoulders, the tendons standing taut in his neck, the terse bob of his throat as he forced himself to swallow.
She drew her stirring stick from the cauldron for the last time. The potion shimmered, moonstone dust suspended in the liquid like stars in the night sky. Now only to wait for the brew to bind, and spend every second trying to find some way to endure his presence without combusting.
"The Desiderium Draught now requires a thirty-minute resting period," she recited. "Sir?"
Snape's eyes snapped to hers, a single eyebrow lifting.
"Might I read something to pass the time?"
"Provided it bears no relation to potions or brewing," he said, his voice came out low and scraped raw. "You may."
She bit her lip and nodded, the gesture feeling juvenile, but deliberate all the same. Then she spun around to her bag on the floor, bending at the waist to reach for it, the motion pulling her skirt up her thighs higher than one would deem classroom appropriate. Completely unavoidable, she thought.
She heard the small intake of breath behind her, then the barely audible curse torn from his lips before he could stop them. "Oh, fuck me."
She jolted upright, and her hip caught the edge of the table, rocking the cauldron on its stand. She watched it tip in almost slow motion, over an hour of work slid toward the rim, and then the glimmering liquid launched toward her in one long, liquid arc.
"Bollocks—"
It hit her skirt first, soaking through the fabric instantly, clinging to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
The effect was instantaneous. A violent jolt of heat slammed into her core, radiating outward from her center. Hermione gasped, her back arching as the throbbing between her legs turned into a lightning storm she couldn't outrun.
Snape was at her side in a heartbeat, his black robes billowing behind him. "Clumsy, Miss Granger. Even for a student of your caliber," he drawled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He dropped to a knee to get a closer look at the affected area, aka her upper thighs and cunt.
As the potion surged through her bloodstream, Hermione's vision blurred. The edges of the room softened, and in her haze she didn't see him merely inspecting the spill. She was hallucinating now, surely. He couldn't be tracing the lines of her legs, his eyes burning every inch on their way up. She must have been imagining his hands sliding upward, the rough pads of his fingers brushing the hem of her skirt, peeling the damp fabric back to inspect the pale, flushed skin of her upper thighs.
A low, needy moan escaped. "Professor," she whimpered. "I can feel you…looking at me. Do you like how wet I am for you?"
If this fantasy was to hold up as her deepest desire, she was ready to play.
Severus froze, his expression shifting from annoyance to stark surprise. "Excuse me? What in Salaz—"
"I want you to touch me," she interrupted, her hand sliding towards his, beaming that he hadn't retreated. She shifted her hips, feeling so…so achingly hollow. "That was a lie, I don't just want it. I need it. P-please, right here." She hadn't realized how close their hands were until she went to grab his wrist, pulling it to her center.
She watched his throat bob. "Miss Granger, I don't think you—"
"You know as well as I do that I'm in full control of myself. It's not my fault you're the object of my desires, now is it Severus?" she purred as she guided his hand closer, finally feeling the heat of his palm centimeters away from the gusset of her knickers where she's no doubt soaked thoroughly, with no help from the spill.
Normally she would've been insanely aroused, but under the effects of this potion, she was a firework. It lit the fuse, and electric sparks burst underneath her skin with every second he remained in her orbit.
Her middle and index finger slowly walked up his heaving chest, still feeling his hand tensing away from her cunt. "Don't you want to know about those? My desires? The things I dream about when I slide my hand under my knickers, and no dorm-mates around to hear me moan your name."
She'd read in many romance novels that when knee-deep in arousal, the man's eyes grow dark, his pupils blown wide. So what did it mean when the pupils devoured the iris whole, overtaking any semblance of color, utterly consumed leaving no distinctive rings? What would they call that?
When he didn't answer, she stepped closer hoping he'd give in and finally feel the effect he was having on her but to her disappointment, he pulled his hand free of her grip.
Blast it, so close.
He grabbed her wrist as she tried to snake it around his neck.
"If this is what you want, Miss Granger," he said slowly, the words placed like a tripwire. "Then you wouldn't be opposed to answering a few questions to ensure your 'faculties' are entirely your own?"
"My answers are 'yes sir', 'so wet' and 'please, inside me'." When she spoke, her own voice had gone aqueous, thinned enough that you could practically pour it.
He went stock still. "Not what I asked, you insufferable little know-it-all." But still made no move to leave.
"Oh, I do love it when you talk dirty to me," she murmured as she leaned into his collar. Just one little taste of his skin, just a tiny lick and she was certain he'd be done for.
"None of that." He took a step back but she followed like a magnet. With an exasperated sigh, he spun her around and pushed her front flush with the corner of the desk, no longer in reach of the cauldron.
What a gentleman.
"I need to confirm your mind is still yours," he said, his breath grazing her cheek as he leaned into her. "and if you answer correctly, I suppose I can believe you."
The hardened length of him pressed deliciously between her arsecheeks. She couldn't help the moan that slipped out, her head tilting back to rest on his shoulder.
"Now Miss Granger," his voice caressed her ear, "what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Another grind of his cock against her. She gasped out, trying desperately to remember why that question sounded so familiar. Asphodel, asphodel, aspho— Oh this arsehole.
"Is it finally my turn to answer these, Sev?"
"Mind your cheek, Miss Granger, and that's Professor or Sir to you." He said as he bit the side of her neck.
"Yes, sir." She moaned as he soothed the mark with his tongue. She could feel the suck of his lips leaving marks on her skin, the blood vessels bursting beneath his teeth. She wouldn't let him vanish them, they were hers prizes, her trophies.
"Should I assume from the lack of an answer, you're not ready for this…exam?"
"No, don't stop, it's Draught of Living Death, Draught of Living Death!" she panted out as he ground against her again, the corner of the desk putting the perfect pressure on her clothed clit sending shocks of pleasure up her spine.
"Very good." His voice had gone rough, barely recognizable. "Now, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" His hands left her hips and gently caressed the underside of her breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
"Stomach of a goat." The words tumbled out as his fingers found her peaked nipples. He pinched, twisted, with the same finesse she'd watched him wield in duel demonstrations. She'd sat in the back row of every single one, legs crossed, telling herself it was just the magic that thrilled her. But she knew it was a lie. It was him. It had always been him. "You're stalling, Professor."
"I'm just confirming, and you're nearly there, Miss Granger." He groaned into her ear, keeping the steady pace against her arse, faltering just slightly. "One last question."
She couldn't find the words, so a whimper of acknowledgement was all he'd get.
"Mmm, what is the difference…between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Oh, thank gods. Thank every deity she's ever studied across every religion, every era. Easy.
"Nothing. Not a godsdamn thing. They're the same exact plant, Aconite." She said, her restraint fraying at the edges.
"Correct. Extra points for the identification of the species." She hadn't noticed his hands undoing the buttons of her shirt, until she felt the soft skin of his palms pulling the cups of her bra beneath her breasts. "You're close, aren't you."
But she knew it wasn't a question. The gentleness of his voice was a welcome balm to the inferno that was coursing through her veins. She needed him inside her now or she'd burn to nothing.
"I need—" A moan swallowed the rest. His pace had increased; even clothed, she could feel the muscles in his torso pushing against her. What she wouldn't give to see what he hid under those black robes.
"I think I can help with what you need, Miss Granger." He removed one hand and found the back of her knee, lifted, and settled it on the table. This new position opened her wider and more exposed than she'd ever been before.
"Now, can I assume from your penchant for cavalier flirtations that you are not a virgin?"
She shook her head.
"Words, Miss Granger."
"N-no, I'm not. Please." She didn't know what she was begging for. Anything. Everything. Her pussy ached, hollow with wanting, clenching around nothing. She needed him desperately.
"I want to ask, just once more, are you sure this is what you want?"
She nodded frantically, "Yes, gods, yes please!"
She felt her knickers moved aside and and gasped as cool air struck her clit. Another hollow clench with nothing to grip.
"Gorgeous," he murmured. Then a single finger swiped through her, gathered what had already slicked her thighs and pushed inside.
"Hnnng—That feels—oh gods—that feels so—!"
"You're so tight, Miss Granger. So wet you've made a mess of my table."
"Yes—so so wet—just for you."
She felt another digit push in, his rhythm matched the pinching pulls at her breast. But she needed more, gods, she just wanted all of him.
"M-more, Sir. Please, I need more of you."
"We're almost there, Miss Granger. You just need to let go."
She may have lied to him, a bit. She wasn't a virgin, that much was true. But she'd never had someone else get her over the finish line, so to speak. Typically she'd get herself off once the sweaty body beside her rolled over, already snoring. She considered herself a 'shared orgasm virgin'.
But she could feel it now, the shift, the moment he reached her edge. All she needed to do was jump.
He pumped faster, kissing her cheek, her neck, then down to the juncture of her shoulder and bit down. Hard.
She didn't jump over that proverbial edge as much as she was launched.
Her body exploded. Every extremity curled inward, the inferno she felt before had morphed into a bloody supernova. Her vision whited out and she heard a scream. That couldn't be her. No, she'd never been a screamer before. But as the stars faded behind her eyes, and she gently drifted back to Earth, her throat felt a little raw.
"You're lucky we're so deep in the dungeons that no one has come running in search of the banshee that made its way into the castle." he sneered.
Did he—did he just make a joke? Oh gods. Someone should check the Polyjuice stash, because in no universe would Severus Snape make jokes, even at her expense.
"Fuck you" she groaned, with exactly zero bite behind it.
"Watch your language in my classroom, Miss Granger." A gentle swat on her arse followed, then the soothing pressure of his hand. "And don't you worry that pretty little head. I intend to." He growled under his breath.
Severus didn't waste another second. Her grabbed her waist, no doubt leaving bruises she'd find tomorrow, and flipped her around. When she faced him again, he was transformed. His hair was disheveled, black strands falling across his forehead, nearly hiding his face. Then his eyes, fuck. They were usually so controlled and guarded, but were wild and fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a hand at her throat.
The Severus Snape who lectured about precise measurements and proper stirring technique was gone. In his place stood a man who man who looked like he might devour her whole, and she found herself wanting exactly that.
"Do you need the contraceptive spell, or are you on the potion?"
"Potion."
"And should I trust your skills in brewing such a potion based on the abilities you've shown today?" He not-so-subtly looked to the tipped cauldron that was pouring a thin waterfall onto the floor.
She let out a breathy laugh. "I think you're willing to risk it."
"You're insufferable," he grumbled as his hands traced up her thighs. She hoped he could feel her body trembling just for him.
He ripped her skirt upward, and groaned as he took in the sight of her white cotton knickers adorned with little yellow daisies, just a touch of her pink cunt peeking through the nearly translucent gusset.
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, kneading the sensitive flesh, knowing she'd draw blood soon if she didn't stop.
He hooked his fingers in the band of her knickers and ripped. They fell to the floor in scraps before she could think of a clever retort. A gasp escaped her, then morphed into a whiny moan as he spread her thighs wide, so wide they nearly touched the table's surface.
She let out a sharp cry as he leaned in, his tongue darting out to lick a long wet strip from her entrance to her clit. She bucked and dug her fingers into his shoulders, as he sucked that hard nub between his lips.
"P-please sir, I can't wait any longer. I need you inside me NOW." The words came out desperate, rasped, a voice she barely registered as her own.
Severus groaned, his hand diving into his trousers to free his cock. Rock hard, pulsing with a need that matched her own. He gripped the base, giving one slow stroke before he edged the broad head against her slit. With one powerful, singular thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
Hermione screamed into the crook of his neck, arms trembling with the effort of holding herself to him when all she wanted was to lie back and let him use her. But she needed him closer, his heat, his voice. She wanted to memorize every detail.
He pounded into her with relentless rhythm, their bodies slapping together, the sound filling the empty classroom, overwhelming in its rawness. Each thrust drove deep, sending waves of sparks down her spine. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled his face to hers.
When she imagined their first kiss, she pictured something careful, a stolen peck behind a tapestry or a chaste goodnight after the last student had gone. Never this. His mouth came down hungry, demanding, tasting of clove and warm smoky wood. His tongue wasn't gentle, it was claiming, exploring her in a passionate dance that left no room for hesitation.
One hand drifted from her thigh to the back of her neck. "You're so tight, Miss Granger." Severus hissed against her lip. He drove into her without mercy, the collision of their hips causing the glass vials of her ingredients to tumble off the table, shattering behind her. Neither cared enough to stop. He moved his hand down to her clit, pinching it between to fingers rubbing it with the same vigor he fucked her with.
"I'm so clo—, Oh gods—, I'm right there!" she wailed into his shoulder, breathing deep, drowning in petrichor and sandalwood. She wanted to bury herself in his cloak and breathe him in for days.
The pressure built inside her, more intense than anything she'd ever felt before, not even her largest toy made her shake like this. Two more strokes and her walls clamped down around him. Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave, and she was lost in its ecstasy.
"That's it, Hermione. Take all of me." His thrusts were getting sloppy, she could feel him nearing his peak and was just waiting to drag him down to her depths.
The slip of her first name made her moan louder than she had before. "Please, i-inside me Severus. Claim me, I'm yours."
With a final, deep thrust that buried him entirely, he let out a choked roar, his body shuddering as he shot ropes of cum deep into her tight center.
They stayed locked together, their breathing heavy and synchronized. The potions haze had softened to something gentler, a warm glow that made every touch feel fuzzy, hypersensitive.
"This feels like a dream," she whispered, barely audible. "Or…or one of my fantasies." She laughed breathlessly. "Am I hallucinating?"
His chest rumbled with a gentle hum. "I can assure you, this was very real. And as you did not ingest your potion, you are most definitely not hallucinating." He said, finally lifting his head from her shoulder.
He brushed back her sweat-slicked hair and gave her one last tender kiss to her lips before pulling out. She felt the gentle tingling of a scourgify as he carefully lifted her from the table, placing her on unsteady feet.
She couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter as years of studying and preparation spilled across the stone floor. He followed her gaze, then caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
"You can petition for a makeup exam, but I for one believe you deserve an O for that performance, Miss Granger." he smirked.
"Well I received plenty of those just now, didn't I?" She pecked his lips, still not ready to detach herself from him. "Plus, I don't think the Board will take 'seducing a faculty member' as a plausible excuse for a makeup exam."
It was like a splash of cold water.
"The Board…"
They both whipped toward the Observation Orb, still glowing red, still recording.
He cast a wandless Tempus. Golden numbers hung in the air: 18:29:52…
Her exam was set to end in eight seconds.
Eight seconds until the recording was automatically sent to the entire Hogwarts Board of Directors and the Headmaster.
Eight seconds until the tryst with her former teacher would cost him his position and her, her education and future.
Seven…
She looked at him, wide-eyed and panicked.
Six…
Severus dashed for his desk, for the wand he'd abandoned when he came to check on her.
Five…
She spun to the mess: robes and broken vials and spilled potion, hands scrabbling for her own wand.
Four…
On her knees now. Blood smearing her palm from the glass. Where the hell is it?!
Three…
She glanced at the clock; at the life she was about to lose.
Two…
A flash of ebony wood in the corner of her eye.
One…
"BOMBARDA."