Chapter Text
There were only a few things in life that Severus Snape truly despised. Children, for example. Sunlight. Chatterboxes. Over-motivated young colleagues with a tendency to dress too revealingly while also being brilliant. And yes – most of all: Hermione Jean Granger.
No, that was not correct. Not anymore. Not precise enough. The truth was far more perfidious, far more embarrassing. He did not despise her – he despised what she did to him. Every damned time she floated through the corridors with that bouncing step, with that cheeky grin on her lips, with the shameless self-assurance of a woman who knew what she wanted – and with the body of a sin that refused to be dismissed from his mind. No, Severus Snape was not angry at her. He was angry at his own cock. And at his peace of mind, which had dissolved into nothing over the past weeks under a swirling haze of lust, frustration, and growing paranoia.
It had begun exactly two months ago. Minerva, that insidious witch with the face of a charitable grandmother and the strategic mind of a war minister, had considered it an excellent idea to bring Granger back to Hogwarts. As a teacher. For Transfiguration. For her former post. At barely twenty-three, with a degree earned with distinction, a teaching certification she had essentially garnished with an Order of Merlin on her own – and with an audacity that made him groan at night in his bed, without a drop of sleep finding its way between the sheets.
And now she was here. Every damned day. In staff meetings. In the Great Hall. On the way to her office. In his nightmares. In his fantasies. In his... underwear.
Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose with two bony fingers as if he could massage the thoughts out of his head. It did not work, of course. Instead the image appeared again before his inner eye – how she had drawn her wand from the back waistband of her trousers in one fluid motion, her blouse slightly askew, the black lace band of her bra visible, a hint of magnolia in the air, and that look, that look that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.
And he had reacted like a pubescent sixth-year. With an erection that had almost torn his robe apart. No, this was not a state he could tolerate. Not a functional one. Not a dignified one. And certainly not a healthy one.
This was why he was sitting here now. At his massive desk in the dungeon office, the door locked, a glass of firewhisky beside him, a quill in hand and a sheet of parchment in front of him. Written on it, in immaculate, determined script:
Operation: Sabotage. Target: Hermione Jean Granger. Objective: Expulsion through humiliation. Deadline: 10 days.
He dipped the quill back into the inkwell, exhaled irritably through his nose, and continued:
Basis: Subject Granger is young, brilliant, attractive, intrusive, infuriatingly self-confident, sharp-tongued, too intelligent for her own good, and pushes my already fragile hormonal balance to the brink of explosive instability.
Symptoms: Persistent erection, loss of concentration, irritability, lack of sleep, daydream-supported self-loathing.
Danger: Loss of dignity, loss of employment, potential loss of control.
Solution strategy: Systematic sabotage of her everyday situations with the aim of driving her to resign voluntarily.
He paused, took a sip from his glass, and hummed quietly. It was a brilliant idea. He would finally be able to think again, without his brain constantly taking leisurely strolls between her legs. The only challenge: Granger was not a delicate romantic but a Gryffindor with the temperament of a dragon and the endurance of a damned house-elf union. It would require creativity. And patience. And a hefty portion of... malice.
Severus smiled crookedly. Luckily I am excellent at being malicious.
He began the list of planned sabotages:
The shrinking towel – Goal: public embarrassment in a changing-room situation, erotically charged setting, psychological destabilisation through exposure. Application: magical shrinking charm on her bath towel in the swimming area. Expected reaction: flight, outrage, embarrassed retreat. Possible side effect: personal spontaneous erection. Risk: low. Reward: visual ecstasy.
The moaning inkpot – Goal: undermine her professionalism, public ridicule, erotic irritation. Application: enchant ink with auditory moaning effect, voice: his. Content: variable, from subtle to obscene. Expected reaction: outrage, irritation, moral indignation. Alternatively: laughter. Risk: medium. Reward: her flushed cheeks.
The exploding chocolate – Goal: sweet sabotage, creating an embarrassing-sensual scenario. Application: lace favourite chocolates with smudge charm, contents explode onto face, neck, décolletage. Expected reaction: disgust or laughter. Risk: high, if she begins licking herself clean. Reward: visual overload.
He leaned back, regarding his work with a mixture of pride and shame. What the hell had become of him? Once the terror of the Dark Arts, now a horny scoundrel with a weakness for sheer blouses and chocolate sauce. It was pathetic. And somehow magnificent.
He bent over the parchment again, continuing:
The transparent skirt – Goal: targeted revelation, response test under reduced shielding, testing her threshold for embarrassment. Application: fabric-disenchantment curse on skirt material. Risk factor: she wears no knickers. Expected reaction: spontaneous resignation or escalation of the game. Reward: presumably a heart attack.
The sauna fiasco – Goal: physical closeness, loss of control due to heat surge, boundary shifting through sweat factor. Idea: still needs refinement. Possibility: sudden barrier malfunction, explosion of towels, soap-induced slipperiness – something indecent.*
He frowned. He had to be careful. Too much, too soon – and she would either inform Minerva or hex him. Too little – and she would continue. Continue talking. Continue laughing. Continue smelling. Continue breathing. He scribbled a few additional ideas in the margin: nickname curses, vibrating seating, hallucinatory daydreams, illusion-supported double vision. And then...
Then came the final item on his list. The one he did not name. Could not name.
What if she stayed? What if she did not go? What if he had to see her every day. Hear her. Smell her. Dream of her. And drove himself deeper into madness in the process? What if he did not even want her to leave? What if he actually just... wanted her attention? He snorted, tore off the last piece of parchment, crumpled it and threw it into the fire. Nonsense. Fantasies. Hormones. Of course he wanted her gone. Of course.
Or did he?
Severus stared at the crackling parchment dissolving into smoke in the fireplace of his office and wondered – not for the first time in recent weeks – whether he had completely lost his mind. It was not the content of the list that made him doubt. Not the inkpots, the chocolate, or the vibrating furniture. No. It was the fact that he was looking forward to it. To tomorrow. To day one. To her reaction. Her damned forehead wrinkles and that eyebrow twitch that amused him as much as it aroused him. He knew her too well. Knew exactly how she would look when she stepped into one of his traps – how she would huff, half outraged, half amused, her lips forming that small, superior smile that burned in his loins like dragon fire.
He had a problem.
A very stiff, very feminine-shaped problem that was damned good at pushing him to the edge of sanity. And instead of retreating, he went on the offensive. Typical Gryffindor behaviour, he thought bitterly. And I am not even one. That makes it worse.
He took the next sheet of parchment and wrote at the top:
Day 1 – Preparation
Then he underlined it twice as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did. If I have her this close for another week without a vent, I will either kill someone or have to jerk off in the middle of the bloody Great Hall. And that would be... suboptimal.
He began noting her typical daily routines:
– 7:00 a.m. – Breakfast. Always far left at the table. Likes black tea, no sugar.
– 8:00 – Class – Transfiguration classroom, 2nd floor, Wing B
– 11:30 – Break – library or greenhouse
– 1:00 p.m. – Lunch – large staff room or outside in the courtyard
– 5:00 p.m. – Swimming – pool area (Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays)
– 7:00 p.m. – Marking – mostly in her office, lights on late
He looked at his handwriting, which became smaller the deeper he delved into her schedule, and wondered whether he was already a case for St. Mungo. Probably. But one with exquisite planning skills. He scribbled:
Weaknesses:
– Responds to provocation with irony – good.
– Physically fearless – bad.
– Has a sense of humour – very bad.
– Appears aware that she is sexy – catastrophic.
– Has shown no romantic or sexual relationships at Hogwarts so far – dangerous. Either complete control or suppressed libido.
– Smiles at me too often – murderous urges. Or something else.
He threw the quill on the table, ran a hand through his hair, and cursed under his breath. I need a potion. Any. Something to dampen this... reaction. Unfortunately he knew none. Not when the source of the problem lingered directly under his skin. He stood, walked to the window – the view into the courtyard where everything would begin tomorrow. The opening act. The first step on his path of lust-suppression through targeted destruction of female nerves.
Or something like that.
He leaned against the window frame, stared into the dark night, and wondered what she might be doing right now. Whether she was again sitting on her sofa in that cosy, slightly shabby professor’s flat with too many stacks of books, a damned pot of tea and that Gryffindor blanket. Whether she was reading. Whether she was undressing. Whether she was...
He turned abruptly from the window, grabbed the firewhisky glass again and emptied it in one go. Pull yourself together, Severus. You are forty-three. You are not a teenager. You are a former Death Eater, not a lovesick schoolboy.
Yet that was exactly what drove him mad – that damned mixture of unreturned desire and the gnawing feeling that she knew. That she sensed his reactions. And that she enjoyed them. Perhaps not consciously. Perhaps only subconsciously, in that slight swing of her hips when she walked past him, or in that almost pitying smile when he tensed up the moment she sat too close beside him.
She is not toying with you, Snape, he told himself. Although she does not leave you in peace either. And that was worse. Much worse. He sat back at the desk, rolled up the parchment, stored it carefully in an old textbook no one would ever voluntarily open – “Magical Theories of Dragon Taming” – and sealed it with a five-layer charm. Just in case. If Granger was anything, it was curious. If she found this... No. She must never find it.
Then he stood, extinguished the light, pulled the robe over his head and went into his bedroom. He lay down. Stared at the ceiling. And imagined how she would leave him in ten days. Angry. Frustrated. Erotically shaken. Perhaps with one last tear-damp glance over her shoulder. And he would stand in the doorway, cold, controlled, with a satisfied smile.
And an erection.
Shit.